The follow up to my story two weeks ago. Part 3 to follow. The Shrine of Morta was its usual dark self when we arrived with the bodies. Of course, it was well into the evening, but it could have been noon – what little sunlight managed to pierce the cloud cover wouldn’t have penetrated into the building. Even the actual oil lamps that were lit to allow people to see at all didn’t manage to disperse as much of the darkness as you might have expected. I’d heard all sorts of explanations for this over the years, but I always thought the simplest one made the most sense – Morta likes the dark.
I’d never really noticed before, but the halls were filled with priests going… somewhere. I searched back through my memories, and they showed the corridors of the shrine as being empty and more oppressive for that emptiness. Had I simply never noticed before, or was this unusual? I honestly couldn’t answer that question. I was certainly more aware of the priests than I would normally have been, wondering why one had killed my friend earlier in the day. And wondering if they would make another attempt. I still had no explanation for the bizarre attack. Was there some kind of conspiracy amongst the priesthood that I needed to beware of? Was it one madman acting alone? Either way, my paranoia was telling me that we had made the right decision in removing the badges of office from the corpse we were delivering. There was still the danger that he might be recognised, but it could be even worse if we were found to have not delivered, or to have mutilated, a body. “Is it just me,” Annette whispered from beside me, “or are they watching us?” I simply grunted in response. She had a point, but I was hoping it was our imaginations. Fortunately, the delivery went as it always did. We took the bodies to the priest in charge, they were logged, and we turned to leave with the priest’s thanks. However, as we were about to go, my curiosity got the better of me. “This one,” I said, pointing to the corpse that had been a priest, “died killing my man. Can you call him back to find out why?” The priest looked up at me with his eyes wide, I guessed in surprise. We all knew that such was available, but it wasn’t a service often called upon. “Of course,” the priest said after a moment. “I will need to get one of my superiors – such a ritual is beyond me. Do you have a reason to believe that he was anything but a malcontent?” I glanced over at Annette who was looking at me with her own wide eyes and slightly open mouth. I glared at her, and she quickly adopted a more relaxed look. I turned back to the priest, shaking my dead. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed strange. He killed Jackson but was then killed himself. It seems such a pointless act.” The priest nodded his head. “I see. Please, wait here.” He left and Annette immediately turned to me. “Sarge! You know I wouldn’t normally question your actions, but what are you doing?” “I have to know,” I replied. “I have to.” “He’ll find out that the guy was a priest!” I nodded. “Yes, then it’s out of our hands. Hopefully we’ll find out what was going on, but either way it stops being our problem.” “But Sarge! Then they’ll know that we know!” I looked at her. “We don’t know anything.” The return of the priest with a colleague cut our argument short. I found it impossible to tell which of them was the superior one – as far as I could tell, their dark robes were identical with the same skull-based emblems of Morta on them. I’d heard it said that this was deliberate and only between themselves did rank matter – after all, they all spoke with Morta’s voice. Clearly, people like myself were sufficiently outside that we were mostly treated the same way as anybody else, though with some small caveats – the junior one had explained the need to fetch a superior. “Would you be so kind as to wait outside whilst I conduct the ritual?” One of the priests had spoken, and clearly not the original one – this voice was female. Why would they want that? Watching the ritual wouldn’t teach us how to do it – I knew that it required very specialised training and a very particular faith in Morta to function. The only other explanation was that they didn’t want us to hear the discussion that they would have with the dead man. Which meant they had something to hide from us. “Of course,” I said, turning towards the door and taking Annette with me. “In fact, we should be getting back to our barracks – perhaps you could have a message sent if there is anything we need to know about?” The two priests nodded in unison. “That would be acceptable,” said the senior one. “Go now, and walk in Morta’s shadow. Serve him in life and death.” We both bowed, showing the appropriate respect they were due, and we departed. Quickly. As we returned to the barracks, Scar and Blade recognised our urgency, and they immediately drew weapons and looked to us to see if an explanation would be given. Annette moved to close and bar the entrance whilst I brought the two of them up to speed. They nodded, understanding the potential risk. I hoped that they, like myself, were struggling to believe it, to believe that the Priesthood of Morta might have cause to kill us. And then we waited. I’ve never been sure how long we waited for – it felt like hours, though it was probably only a few minutes. Our barracks has two entrances – the front which was small enough that Blade could likely hold it themselves, the back larger so that the horses could move in and out that way. Scar and I held that one, whilst Annette readied her crossbow to provide support wherever it was needed. “For what it’s worth,” I said during that nebulous wait, “I’m sorry for bringing this down on you all.” Scar grunted – she didn’t tend to say much since the scar that informed her nickname was across her jaw and neck, making it painful for her to speak. “You hear that, Blade,” Annette called. “Sarge says he’s sorry.” Blade didn’t look back – they simply said, “Sarge is Sarge.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take that. When the attack came, it was swift and, if we hadn’t been prepared, it would have been surprising. The front door banged open and Blade immediately leapt to action, slicing with their twin swords. I heard the sound of Annette’s crossbow shooting as I watched to see if Blade required any further support. Scar’s attention was completely on the other door, trusting that I would warn her if she was needed elsewhere. It didn’t take long to realise what Blade was fighting against – the dead. All of Annette’s concerns were playing out – either somebody had learned to wrest control of the dead forces away from the Priesthood, or the Priesthood themselves were trying to kill us. Quite aside from the danger this brought to us, it was sacrilege – the dead were for the war and weren’t supposed to be active in the city. I hoped that the Priesthood had simply lost control somehow – perhaps the following of the Lords of Light was greater in the city than I’d appreciated – but a part of me knew that this was wishful thinking. The stable door burst open, and I turned my attention to it. It was too wide for Scar to defend it by herself, and so I moved up to support her. Fortunately, the dead were not skilled at combat, and so we could keep many of them at bay. They were dangerous in numbers and so, if we worked to keep our entry points secure, we shouldn’t have been in too much danger. Then I noticed one of the dead. “Jackson?” I stumbled as I recognised the body of my dead friend, and that settled the argument in my mind. Jackson’s body had only been re-animated within the last hour – for some reason, the Priesthood, specifically the ones we had visited earlier that same day, were trying to kill us. When Jackson reached the front of the crowd of dead, I could see that he was not like the others. This dead looked aware and moved with grace rather than lumbering around. Its mouth had been sewn shut, and it swung its weapon with deadly precision. Scar had also recognised it and had leapt to the attack. I called for Annette, who continued to shoot her bolts where she could find openings. I tried to get to Scar’s side – she was a strong and skilled fighter but, in life at least, Jackson had been better. I didn’t know how much of his skill his corpse might have retained, but this one was different from the rest and I didn’t want to chance it. However, the pressing numbers kept me from her. As I chopped and slashed, desperately trying to move through the throng, I saw her take a blow from Jackson’s corpse and fall. The other dead around them immediately leapt to the ground, to keep attacking her whilst they more easily could. I roared, moving with renewed vigour and seeing Annette take down the dead where she could. I destroyed the dead, only my training allowing me to continue in spite of the screaming in my head that this was wrong – a body should not be wasted, should not be destroyed. All were needed for the war. However, no matter how wrong my current actions felt, I could be spurred on by the knowledge that the Priesthood had done worse and done it first. All bodies were meant for the war. I prayed to Morta as I fought, seeking absolution for my actions, and condemning those of his clergy. By the time I reached Scar, I was surrounded. I dared to glance down and saw that my comrade was dead. Suddenly, Blade was at my side, their swords spinning in the darkness. I moved to parry the attack of another of the dead, and a crossbow bolt embedded itself in its head, making it fall. “Time to go, Sarge,” Blade said conversationally. “There are more of them than we can defend against, especially now they’ve gotten in.” Blade was right. They’d forced themselves in whilst Scar had fought with Jackson, and then more now that Blade had moved to support me. The horses were already dead and our options were looking scarce. I nodded to Blade. “Aye. To stay will be death, and I don’t feel as ready to meet it as I might normally.” “I’ll hold them off, Sarge,” Blade replied. I nodded again. Blade was the best fighter of us and would have a far greater chance of holding off the horde of dead whilst I worked. I moved swiftly through the dead whilst Blade worked swiftly to reduce their numbers and Annette alternated between supporting our friend and keeping the dead from me. I reached the chest on the back wall and pulled out our emergency supply of incendiaries. We didn’t use fire often – too great a risk of damaging the bodies – but we always had some in case. I aimed the first one directly at Scar’s body and a part of me howled in pain at what I was doing. Bad enough that I was destroying a body, but it was that of a friend – a friend that would now not be able to fight in the war. However, I wasn’t going to risk having her sent against us as Jackson had been, and I didn’t want the Priesthood to have the chance to call her back to answer their questions. We had safe houses scattered across the city, and Scar had known where they were. The fire spread swiftly, finding fuel aplenty in the dried-out bodies that were attacking us. I threw several more of them, targeting the largest groups of non-burning dead and quickly setting them alight. “More incoming, Sarge,” said Allette. Her vantage point afforded her a good view out through the stable door. I climbed up to join her, whilst Blade worked furiously to keep the horde from us. I could see that she was right – how many were they going to send? In a distant way, it almost seemed a compliment, but the fact that they had so many to send raised questions. Had they been drawn back from the war? The fires had given us some breathing space, and so I called for a retreat. The front entrance to the barracks was now clear, thanks to Blade’s earlier efforts. I threw one more incendiary to give Blade a chance to fall back and we all ran into the night. Once we were clear of the place, we looked back and watched our old barracks burn, along with another friend. “Well,” said Annette whilst we were catching our breaths. “I suppose they do have something to hide.” I nodded. “Yes,” I replied. “And we’re going to find out what it is.”
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A little different to my usual today. This is a character study piece for a character that I'm currently thinking about it in my head for a LRP that is due next year. He is a member of a Goblin Court of the Dawn, who work to bring and restore hope to people. Of course, it was raining when Simon left his office building – the perfect ending to another awful day. Raining hard enough that the water that missed you on its way down had a chance to get you again when it bounced off the ground. Simon opened his umbrella, but the wind was blowing enough that it wasn’t particularly helping.
He walked down the dark and quiet streets – nobody with any sense was out in such weather unless they had to be – and even those people who were outside ignored each other. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it, already knowing that it would be Emily asking where he was. She wouldn’t blame him for his lateness – she would understand that he had to work late at the moment, but that wouldn’t stop the sadness in her voice. He couldn’t listen to that sadness again. Thoroughly drenched, Simon reached the bus stop, only to see the 102 continue along without stopping. He nodded to himself, unsurprised at the twists that life threw at him. According to the board, the next bus was due in half an hour – half an hour would see him most of the way home, but even wetter. The two paths tantalised him with the need to make a decision – neither going nor waiting seemed appealing, and so he sat on the bench, apathy winning over activity. A few minutes passed – Simon didn’t really notice them. Nor did he think about anything in particular. He didn’t pull out his phone to pass the time – there were only so many times you could scroll through social media and see how well all of your friends were doing before it became even more depressing than not knowing. “Hey! You need a ride?” Simon looked up, seeing a taxi that had pulled up at the bus stop. It took a few moments, and a need for the driver to repeat his question, before Simon realised that it was being addressed at him. “No thanks,” Simon said, shaking his head. “The bus will be here soon – I can wait.” He was about to go back to looking down at the ground, but the driver’s eyes caught him and he couldn’t help but to meet that gaze. They sparkled, though that might have just been the rain, and they seemed old – so very old. Simon took a moment to actually look at the driver – fairly non-descript white man in his early-to-middle years, but those eyes seemed ancient, with a depth of experience that you could lose yourself in. “Come on,” the driver said, “get in. My treat – it’s not like there’s all that many paying fares around right now.” Simon started to shake his head but then thought again. Why not? If the world was going to send him an actual act of kindness, why not take advantage of it. There were risks – there are always risks when you get into a car with a stranger – but, whilst he recognised that, they didn’t seem important or relevant at that moment. He climbed into the back seat. “Sorry about the damp,” he said as he sat down. The driver laughed. “Don’t worry about it – they’ll dry. Where to?” “You know the Cattle Market?” Simon asked, pulling out a handkerchief and trying, in vain, to dry his face. “Pub out on Rosehill?” the driver asked. “That’s the one,” Simon replied. The driver put the car into gear and set off. “No problem,” he said, tapping buttons on the taxi’s clock, turning it off. For a minute or so, they drove quietly, with only the rain and the faint music of the radio to break the silence. The driver was paying attention to the road, but Simon noticed that he kept looking in the rear-view mirror, not to check out the traffic behind him, but to look at his passenger. Their eyes met again, aided by the reflective glass. “Rough day?” asked the driver. Simon snorted. “Who are you, my bartender?” The driver smiled at him. “Only at weekends. Habits die hard though. You just getting out of work?” Simon nodded. “Yeah. Again. Feels like I haven’t been home before ten for weeks.” “That’s rough,” replied the driver. “Big project? Deadline?” Simon shook his head. “No – nothing like that. People keep leaving, and it takes so long to replace them that everybody’s having to work harder. You know, the work doesn’t go away just because half of the staff does.” “Except for HR, I suppose.” The driver looked back, catching Simon’s eye again. Simon laughed, despite himself. “Yeah, I suppose.” “So, if everybody else is leaving, why are you still there?” “It’s not like I can just leave,” Simon answered. “You know how it is – you’re holding down two jobs. Bills to pay. We’re saving for a house, and we want to get married. All these things are expensive.” The driver smiled back at him. “Ah – so there’s someone waiting at home for you, at least?” Simon nodded. “Emily.” “You known her long?” The smile crept back onto Simon’s face. “Five years. Been together for three of them.” “And how long engaged?” The smile faded. “Well, we’re not yet. I haven’t asked her. I didn’t feel like it was right before I was successful enough to know we’d be secure.” The driver actually leaned back to look straight at Simon and the intensity of his eyes without the mirror in between them was hard to resist – Simon found himself meeting that gaze. “Man,” the driver responded. “I mean you no offence, but that is some outdated, patriarchy-serving, bullshit.” “What?” Simon was shocked at the driver’s words. “Tell me,” the driver continued, without turning back to look at the road. “Does Emily work as well?” Simon nodded, “Yes.” “And the work you’re doing – is it work you love, or just work to get the money for those oh so 1950s intentions of yours?” “I hate my job. The high ups are completely out of touch, the hours are killing me…” “Have you talked to Emily about this? Does she know you’re unhappy?” “Well… no…” “Would you want her to be unhappy?” “Well… no…” Somehow, the driver was managing to steer around traffic whilst still looking back, directly into Simon’s eyes. “Then, my friend, perhaps it’s time to talk to her. A house won’t make you happy. A marriage might, but it can be done cheap if you need it to be. What makes you happy?” Simon shook his head, tears entering his eyes, though he still couldn’t break the driver’s gaze. “I’m not sure. Emily does…” The driver stopped the car. “Here we are – Cattle Market.” He still hadn’t looked back at the road. “But if I might say one more thing before you get out, this isn’t where you should be. You should be at home, talking to Emily. She needs to know how you feel. She probably already does but doesn’t think she can talk to you about it until you mention it first. “You need to remember who you are. What do you enjoy? If you’ve lost everything you enjoy, what did you used to enjoy. Don’t just work for the sake of working, or the sake of the money – do something you love. You don’t have to make a difference to the world – but it will make a difference to you, and to Emily. “She’s working, and you’ve got savings. Find something else. Re-train. Go back to school. You’ve become lost in the means, to the point where you’ve forgotten about the point.” Simon sat in the back of the car, only able to break the driver’s look when the other man turned his eyes back to the windscreen. The tears were flowing completely. The man was right – and he realised why he didn’t want to listen to Emily’s pained voice again. He was worried that each time he did, it would be the last time, because she would say enough is enough. He checked his phone. Five missed calls from her. Had he really started to ignore her that much? “You can fix this,” said the driver without turning round. “It’s never too late for honesty, and for hope.” Simon nodded to himself, using the sodden handkerchief to dry his eyes. “Ok. Can you take me home – 124 Sycamore?” The driver turned round again, handing him a business card. “Of course.” As he drove away again Simon looked at the card. On one side was a lit candle, and on the other was a telephone number. He put it in his pocket and started to work out what to say when he got home. Something different this week - the first part of a fantasy story set in a dark city where a god of death is the dominant religion. To be continued... We moved quickly once the spirit had raised the alarm – an unlicensed cremation was taking place and we had to get there before the body became too badly damaged. If the spirit had come to us, we must be the closest team to the site, but we’d still need to move quickly. A body damaged too much by fire would be useless.
There were five of us on duty that day – myself, Jackson, Annette, Blade and Scar – all of us old hands and experienced. Unfortunately, the downside of being old hands was the part where we got old. Still, we could move when we needed to, but several of us could feel that our time was coming. We moved to the horses and pressed them into a gallop as Jackson picked up his usual call – his loud voice would tell people blocks away to stay away because we weren’t going to stop just because some people were in the street. It was too important that we get to the crime scene and, ultimately, everybody would go to the war. The streets were quiet and getting quieter as we moved swiftly through the city. Unfortunately, Jackson’s cry would also warn the people that we were intending to arrest, and so Scar rode ahead, her horse faster than the rest. She could move more swiftly alone, and she could make sure that none would escape before the rest of us could arrive. By the time we’d followed the spirit we didn’t need the guidance, we could see the smoke rising into the night from the fire. Scar was out of sight, but she had a nose for such things and didn’t need the guidance – hopefully she was already on the scene. With the fire already lit we didn’t have time for subtlety and so I drew my war hammer, knowing that the others would do the same behind me. Our horses burst into the square where the grievers had met. Four of them had the body in hand, seemingly a young man, and it looked to be in perfect condition. Scar sat her horse, a sword in each hand, between the crowd and the fire, making it very clear that anybody attempting to get by her would join their friend in the war effort. “Stand down!” I called as we entered. “Stand down! We represent the Lord Morta and everybody here is considered to be guilty of facilitating an unlicensed cremation. Hand over the body to us, tell us who the organisers are, and everybody else can return to their homes. Remember, the penalty for attending an unlicensed cremation is only a fine.” It was the usual speech – thankfully we’d arrived in time, and so there was no need for the charges to escalate to destruction of a corpse. Usually, the crowd would give up, recognising that they were hopelessly outmatched, we’d take in the ringleaders, and everybody could go about their business. That was the plan – it was always the plan. I heard a scream and looked over – one of the people present had managed to sneak up on Jackson and plunged a knife into his back. Before I could react, Blade had drawn a knife and thrown it, striking the assassin in the chest, who dropped instantly. I dropped from my horse, moving to check on Jackson. Scar growled at the people. Blade did the same, warning that any further violence would be met with harsher punishment. Annette moved to the fallen assailant. It was too late for Jackson – the knife had gone deep and, whilst he still lived, I recognised a fatal would when I saw one. I couldn’t believe that he had been felled so simply – he’d been by my side for years. I lifted his head so that he could see me, and I looked into his eyes. “Farewell, my friend,” I said. “Your work in this life is done. We will send you to the war.” He tried to reply, but the only thing to come from his mouth before he died was blood. Death came to us all. I looked up to Scar and Blade and shook my head. They nodded their understanding. “Sarge,” said Annette, from where she knelt over the other body. “You should come and have a look at this.” I stood up and did so, looking where Annette pointed. The man that had killed Jackson wore the badge of the skull, the emblem of Morta. I looked more closely at him – younger than myself, but not much I would have guessed. I didn’t recognise him, but that wasn’t surprising – there were hundreds of priests of Morta in the city – I only knew a handful of them. “Bring him back to the barracks when we go home,” I said. “We’ll work this out later.” I turned away from the mystery and went to find out who was most culpable. We removed the badge from the priest before I took the bodies to the local shrine – we still hadn’t managed to work out what a priest would have been doing in such a crowd, even less why he would have killed one of us, and a hunch told me that it was better to keep that knowledge to myself for now. It was a risk – it was possible that the priests at the shrine would recognise the man – but I could always say that he didn’t have the badge on him when he’d attacked. “I’ve got an idea, Sarge,” Annette murmured to me as we walked. I wouldn’t normally bring one of the others with me on a trip like this, but the attack earlier that day had me spooked. She had a crossbow in each hand as I led the horse and cart that carried the bodies. People would normally give us a wide berth anyway – with Annette with me they stayed even further away. “I’m not going to like it, am I?” It was a rhetorical question – I couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which the earlier events could make me happy. “I’m afraid not, Sarge. There’s only one reason I can think of why he would have attacked Jackson – and that’s that he wanted to die.” “You don’t think it was something against Jackson then?” I asked. Annette shook her head. “No, Sarge. If a priest had a problem with Jackson, there are better ways to resolve them.” I grunted an acknowledgement. She had a point – a priest could have called down Morta’s wrath upon us, and we’d have been powerless to do anything about it, much less strike back in retaliation. “So why would he want to die?” I asked. “Well – he must have been worried he’d be recognised and taken in for questioning. He’d prefer to die than be questioned.” I narrowed my eyes and glanced at her. “If he wanted to die, he could have just killed himself. And if he wanted to avoid questioning, he’s failed – now he’s dead, another priest can just call him back and demand answers.” Annette smiled at me. “Not if he wasn’t truly of Morta’s faithful,” she said. “Not if he actually followed the Lords of Light.” I stopped in the middle of the street, only the momentum of the horse and cart keeping me going. Could it be possible? Annette had a point, and the theory did fit the facts, but it was impossible to believe. How could anybody in the city follow the Lords of Light? Let alone a priest of Morta! But it did fit. If this mysterious assassin had been a devotee of Light, rather than Morta, then he would have seen suicide as a grievous sin, and the Lords of Light would protect him from being drawn back. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the idea. Just because it made sense didn’t make it possible. “It’s a nice idea,” I said, “but it can’t be true. I know there are those that don’t like sending their dead to the war, but even they must recognise that without Morta the city would have been overrun decades ago – they’re selfish, not apostates. Annette’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but she quickly brought her crossbows to bear again. “I suppose you’re right, Sarge,” she said. “War curse me though; I can’t think of anything else that makes sense.” I looked over at her. “Me neither, Annette,” I said. “Some things don’t make sense though – folk are strange at times. Just look at us.” That brought a smile to her face and she chuckled in acknowledgement as we continued on our way. Today's story is related to the previous one - A Fairy Tale Sir Honeydew, Knight of Meadowdown strode through the wooden halls of the palacetree. She was unhappy, and she intended anybody that saw her to know it. She hadn’t taken the time to clean herself or her armour after being called back from patrol – all the better to keep people at bay.
Her strategy worked, and she went undisturbed, any others who saw her quickly turning or heading a different way. She wished that the palacetree’s ridiculous rules didn’t forbid flying to the level she wanted – she had to start at the bottom and walk up. Meaning that by the time she reached her destination she would be in an even fouler mood than when she first received the message to report in. Didn’t the people here know that she was doing important work? More and more, the garden fairies encroached upon their own meadowland. More and more, the borders between the realms moved and Meadowdown was getting smaller. No matter how many she and her brethren slew, they could not stop the tide – but it would be even worse without her out on the front lines, ready to push back any foe. Eventually she opened the final door on her journey, not bothering to knock – protocol be damned. She approached the desk where her superior, Sir Roseglass sat, reading reports carved in bark. She stood to attention and raised her hand in salute – no matter how angry she was about being summoned back, a fellow knight was due her respect. Roseglass looked up, his moustaches drooping in a way that made him seen even older than he actually was – Honeydew knew that it was a cultivated look that helped him to maintain the respect of the nobility, even though they annoyed him. When they weren’t on duty, she would tease him about them, but this was certainly not the time for it. He looked as annoyed as she felt. “Honeydew,” he said as way of greeting. “Welcome back. I see you have taken your summons urgently.” “Yes, sir,” Honeydew replied. “The messenger stated that there was a matter of utmost importance and that no delay would be forgiven.” Roseglass shook his head, which made his moustaches shake as well. “My pardon – the prince sent the messenger himself, and before informing me of the situation.” Honeydew nodded, accepting the apology as it was meant – a shared frustration with royals who took the initiative rather than following protocol. “Before we get to that, however,” continued Roseglass, “kindly report on your recent patrol.” “In the last five days, I have toured most of our borders – I had reached the south-eastern corner when I was called upon to return, and so my report excludes intelligence from that section.” Honeydew didn’t think as she spoke – she had rehearsed what to say in her mind enough during her journey that it was automatic when the request was made. “We are facing the usual pressures from the north side – the houses there still stand empty, and so the gardens grow wild. Whilst this strengthens the gardenfolk that live there, and makes them numerous, it also presents an opportunity – if we were to attack and capture those gardens, we could work to revert the plantlife there to meadowlands. “The east is quiet – the gardens there are well tended, which creates a stalemate. We have made several contacts with dogs and cats that reside in those homes, and they are generally sympathetic to our plight. Efforts to the west are not so positive – whilst we have attempted to build a relationship with the felines of that area, they seem to have convinced the gardenfolk to serve them. In the future, that could cause difficulties, and I recommend an immediate sortie of mischief-makers to drive out the owners of the cats. “We have seen action to the northwest, and I bring a written report from the local commander.” Honeydew presented a piece of bark and placed it on the table. “We held back the gardenfolk, but not without losses. The report includes a request for reinforcements. The southwest shows an area of growth – the old sport field has been ignored for long enough that our meadow has started to encroach upon it. If we can encourage the pollinators to focus on that area, we could recapture the field long-term.” Roseglass waited patiently, taking in everything that Honeydew said, making some notes. When it was clear that she had finished, he nodded. “Thank you – I will take your recommendations to the Council. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to see them enacted – I know that they’ll be good strategy if you are suggesting them.” Honeydew remained at attention. “With respect, sir, I did not complete my patrol. May I ask what was so urgent that I had to be called back?” Roseglass beckoned towards the chair on the other side of his desk. “Of course. Please – sit. For now, let us be old comrades, rather than… well, whatever we are now.” Honeydew allowed most of her defences to drop and slumped into the chair with a sigh. She was tired. And the worst part of being called back was that it would mean she was being sent out again. She was supposed to get a couple of days to rest after a full border patrol – she could sense that it wasn’t going to happen this time. “Fern is missing.” Roseglass didn’t have to say more for Honeydew to understand. “Again?” Honeydew was incredulous. She knew that bards had to travel to learn their stories, but that was from a past time, when it was easier to move between the realms. In these days, it was necessary to cross gardens to make such journeys, and it was simply too dangerous for a bard travelling alone – they couldn’t rely on the old traditions to keep them safe. If she had needed to travel, she should have requested as escort. Roseglass nodded. “Indeed. She remains as reluctant to be patient as ever and, as you would expect, Prince Dandeelion is concerned for her safety. I’ve already had reports from other trees that she was seen, though trying not to be recognised, heading southeast – naturally, towards the area that you were called back from.” “We assume that she has headed into a garden?” Honeydew asked. “If so, it will not be easy to find her – there are many houses and gardens in that section, and several streets and more gardens to cross before she would reach Greenwood. However, I have some contact with the pets in some of those gardens, so I might be able to catch up with her.” She moved to stand up. “I’m afraid it gets worse, Honeydew,” said Roseglass. Honeydew sat down again. “Worse? How?” Roseglass rang a small bell on his desk, and one of the squires assigned to serve him opened a door. “Send him in,” Roseglass said, and the squire nodded, and then closed the door again. Oh, no, thought Honeydew. It couldn’t be… The door opened again and as it did, Roseglass answered her question. “The prince has insisted that he should travel with you.” Honeydew’s heart sank. This was going to make a difficult task even harder. |
Flash FictionSome shorter fiction, usually based on some kind of challenge. Archives
October 2021
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