Good as any, Better than most

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 6

“Dear sister, you should know not to play with Mort’s mind”

“Yes little one, it’s akin to setting your target to low”

Mort turned to see Urwin and Urlete behind him.  Although fraternal twins, and different genders, the two were nearly identical in appearance.  Long dark brown hair curled to their shoulders.  Dark green eyes, dappled with grey staring out from under thin brows.  Both were of a height with Oneida, yet seemed less.  Their rail thin frames and narrow stature made them appear as half the size as the rest of their siblings.

A former weapons tutor had once commented to them “Even added together, you’re still less than a whole person”.

He was neither the first, nor last person to make that mistake.

Each individually was nearly a match for Mort in physical combat.  They were both viper quick, with a steel corded strength.  It was only in weapon choice where the two seemed to disagree.  Urwin favored the broadsword.  In his two-handed grip the formidable weapon looked enormous, yet moved with a deadly grace.  Urwin had created his own style of fighting with the weapon, a series of steps, spins, thrusts and swipes that made the blade never stop, gathering enough momentum to cut armored practice dummies in half without slowing. 

Urlete favored no weapons at all.  Although equal to Urwin’s use in all, except the broadsword, she preferred to fight barehanded.  With slightly less arm strength than her siblings, she made up for the lack with speed and focus.  None of them could hope to equal her weaponless.  In truth, most of them could not best her with a weapon, while she remained empty handed.

Separated, they were arguably as skilled as any in the land could claim.  Together, none could match them.  They communicated in the way of twins, unspoken, gesture-less conversations worth volumes of words could occur with a glance.  The weapons tutor that had commented on them lasted less than 10 seconds when he first sparred with them.  A champion fighter in his homeland, he fell quickly to the 12 year old pair.

The twins were fast and silent.  Their tongues were nearly as cutting as a blade.  Many of the playmates of the siblings had felt the sting of words from the twins.  All of their siblings were used to the caustic sarcasm they exuded.  They were five when their youngest sister was born.  Every morning, they had climbed to sit on the edges of her crib, chattering to each other, in the small quiet voices. Once, their mother had asked of them “Why do you perch above the baby, my dear birds?”

“We’re waiting for her to be fun” was the reply.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 4

Mort was a tall man, taller even than his father.  He shared his father’s serious countenance, and sharp features.  Augmenting his hawklike nose, were piercing ice blue eyes, the only feature he had inherited from his mother.  The people of the land respected him as much as Norwin, due to his fastidious and meticulous ways.  He was fair, and respected everyone for their attributes.

Yet, there were few in Grippa that could meet his gaze.  Most that tried, felt as if Mort was peering directly into their soul, their feelings and thoughts all laid bare for his perusal.  They would hold his gaze for a few seconds, and the feeling that Mort could see everything about them would engulf and override any other thought.  People that interacted directly with him daily, quickly developed a habit of talking to his chest.  Of course, the fact that Mort’s chest was the same height as most men’s eyes helped this seem natural.

In addition to his height, or perhaps in direct contrast to it, were Mort’s speed and lithe movements.  Most large people are a bit ponderous in their movements, always seeming to be careful not to squash those around them.  Mort moved with a fluid grace.  Trained heavily in combat since he was a small boy, every move he made seemed to flow into the next.  Mort was easily the strongest person in all of Grippa.  He had won the Test of Strength contest held every year at the Grippan Faire since he was 14, no one else even coming close to his feats of prodigious strength.

At 24, Mort had not even peaked physically.  He continued to train daily with every known weapon, and without any weapon.  As the eldest child, it was expected that he would take over the baronet of Grippa when his father no longer performed those duties.  Mort was well versed in every aspect of the land.  He had long since learned everything his tutors, both mental and physical, had to teach.  His former weapons masters would spar with him, sometimes in multiple pairs, honing their skills, and still be clearly overmatched.  His former tutors, instead of testing him with bits of language, or philosophy, or math, would come to him when they had need of a mind greater than their own.

Mort was, in truth, the epitome of a mythical Hero, come to life.

Onieda called him Mooky.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 3

The smell of fresh baked bread greeted Onieda as she strode into the main hall.  She noted her father’s place setting already being cleared by the drudges.  Her siblings had not yet arrived to break their evening fasts, so Onieda sat at her place.  She loaded her platter with warm slices of bread, and a few scoops of khilot.

The oatmeal like paste named Khilot was a dish only served in Grippa.  A mix of several indigenous plants, roughly chopped, it took several weeks to prepare a single batch.  Only with great care, and specifically timed addition of ingredients, can it be made.  It is said that a single spoonful of khilot can fuel a strong man for several days of labor.  Grippan healers use flakes of dried khilot to bring wasted patients to health in hours, instead of weeks.  Someone, unaccustomed to its properties, eating a small bowl, becomes infused with energy and strength for days.  The effects of Khilot are widely known, and the trading of the traditional paste forms the base of Grippan economy.

Onieda topped her helping with red berries, and sighed in contentment at the flavor.  Even after eating khilot three times daily since she turned 1, it was one of her favorite foods.  A child of privilege, she consumed more of the paste in one sitting, than a wealthy healer would use in a year.  Long ago, Onieda stopped feeling the zing of energy at each bite.  The bowl she ate now, seemingly affected her no more than a bowl of normal grain would affect any other person.

She simply enjoyed the taste.  She hadn’t kept track of each meal, and so, as she finished her meal, she had no way of knowing that she had just consumed the last few ounces in five tons of khilot over her lifetime.

Five tons of this nearly legendary, magical food.  Wars had been fought over a few pounds of khilot.  In countries that didn’t share a border with Grippa, an ounce of khilot would trade well for a carriage, and a team of horses to pull it, lifetime wages for a coachman, and driver, and feed for the team.

The khilot she had always eaten was fresh, taken in the first pulls of each batch.  The drying process weakened the effects, so fresh moist khilot is the most effective and potent.  A Grippan child was always fed fresh khilot for their second year.  Most of them grew to despise the bitter, caking taste of the mash.  Onieda had not.  When she turned two, and her parents stopped the ritual feeding, baby Onieda had coliced.  The only food that she was able to keep was khilot, and so, she had always had khilot.

Today was no different, inasmuch as Onieda’s eating habits went.  The paste was followed by the bread, covered in melted butter.  The bread was followed with a small morning ale.

As she stood, her eldest brother, Mort, entered the hall.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 2

Norwin wished he could remain longer, sharing his strength and comfort, yet duties called.  Eve though the sun had not yet crested the horizon, workers throughout the keep would have questions and require guidance from him.  Such was the life of a Baron, in the country of Grippa.

Onieda watched as her father slipped out the door.  The terrors in her sleep, while never forgotten, were relegated back into a corner of her mind.  She was a dutiful daughter of Grippa.  A dark, nameless fear that clawed at her in the night had no business occupying her mind during the day.  Onieda was born privileged, but her parents had instilled in her a deep sense of responsibility for the land and its people.

A few moments after the door closed, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the cold stone floor.  Spring had come to the land, but the keep was set deep in the bedrock footing.  It’s walls and floors were always chilled, even in the heat of summer.  She quickly moved to the rug in front of her armoire and shed her shift.  She shrugged into her favorite brown linen shirt, and began tying it up, noting that it was tight across her chest.  She had worn the shirt for years and was sad that what hours of activities hadn’t accomplished, her quickening into a woman grown had, making the shirt unsuitable to wear.

Not today though.  Later, she would break in a new shirt, but for now a thick leather vest would hold her modesty.  She donned the leather breeches that unbeknownst to her, caused every eye in the castle to follow her walk.  Slipping on her boots, and tightly lacing them, she was ready for the day’s labor.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 1

Twisting, crying soundlessly, Onieda Firth awoke.  Her dreams details and memories slipped quickly away, leaving only the sense of terror and dread.  Her ragged breathing punctuated the otherwise silent room.  The cool morning air slipped into her lungs, cool and comforting.  Onieda’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in everything and nothing in the dim grayness of the predawn hour.

On the far wall, the hearth sat empty, the interior stone work swept clean.  Winter had not yet gripped the land.  To the left sat a leather chair, the seat piled with half finished knitting.  To the right, a clear glass window looked out on the gray landscape.  In the dim light, Onieda could not yet make out the forms of the workers in the fields, nor could she make out the fields themselves clearly, yet she knew they were already toiling.

Her eyes moved on to the closed door.  The stout oaken door was carved from a single piece.  The side in Onieda’s view, carved with hundreds of small figures locked forever in merry celebration was comforting, a reminder that she was safe in her room.  Her gasps for air slowed.  Her fingers unclenched from the blankets they had been gripping tightly.

“What was I dreaming” she thought.  She was unable to remember even the theme of the dream, only the terror it had caused.  The latch to her door clicked, and Onieda instantly felt the claws of fear clenching her spine.  She opened her mouth to scream, when she saw the familiar face of father peek around the slightly opened door.

Norwin Firth watched the stark fear drain from his youngest child’s face, giving way to a look that spoke to him of relief, love, and the need for comfort.  He had merely been checking on Onieda’s sleep, as he had every day since her birth 17 years earlier.  Pushing the door open further, and moving with a lithe step, Norwin quickly came to his progeny’s side, and held her head gently to his slim chest.

Even a year ago, he would have expected Onieda’s tears.  6 months ago, she would have pushed him away, brusquely informing him that she was ok.  A month ago, her mother, his wife of 60 years, took a fall from her horse and died.  The barriers of teenage rebellion had been ripped asunder, and Onieda and Norwin were again as close as they had been when Onieda was 6.

“The dreams again?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, poppa.  It woke me, and I still can’t remember what they are.”

He rubbed the top of her head, smoothing her slept-tossed hair.  When he had first moved to her, Onieda had been shaking violently.  Now, feeling safe and protected in his arms, the shaking ceased.  He looked down at his child as she looked up.  Their eyes met.  Hers spoke of the gratitude and love that she felt.  His were filled with the concern over her night terrors, the loss of the soul mate he saw reflected in the lines of his daughters face and the pride he felt for her.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Mine.

The crisp scent of frigid air, fresh from the southern mountains danced along the nerves in the hunter’s nose.  Its head tilted up, eyes searching for any sign, any hint of movement.  Crouched low, the hunter scanned the bare, grey slate rock which extended beyond sensory limits.

There was emptiness in all directions, a severe emptiness made worse by the sound of the unbroken wind.  The fading trail had abruptly vanished in all directions, leaving the hunter without reference.  The sameness drowned out any visual clues as to direction.  The sky blended with the grey of the land, yielding no singular point of light, only illuminated with a muted dim glow.  No flora dotted this panorama, no fauna to head toward, or away from.  Lifeless, the caldera stretched in all directions from the hunter.

Bereft of guidance, the hunter turned into the wind, and began to move.  The prey had bought some time, temporarily lost the hunter, but it wouldn’t be able to hide forever.  It would show itself again, and the hunter would be waiting.