Posts Tagged With: Master Class

Fab Four Fables – Dying to See You, Part Duex


Hazel conscientiously parallel parked her efficient little Jetta, with an almost perfect two feet of space in front and behind. She pulled down the visor to verify no lipstick had transferred to her teeth, gave her straight cut brown hair a little fluff with her fingertips. She could feel herself slipping into her new role, her new life, already. She was going to meet her true love for lunch, sweep in the door, prepared for that first electric moment when their eyes would meet across the room and rival the love that launched a thousand ships.

She turned the ringer off on her phone and slid it into its zippered pocket in her purse. Keys, compact, lipstick, wallet, breath mints, check. As she slid out of the car, her sweater snagged on the seat belt harness. “Damn it,” she cursed under her breath. “Not now.” She pulled at the snag, tugged on it until an entire thread came out and left a noticeable hole. “Shitshitshit…” As Hazel pulled her arms out of the sweater, no help for it now, she knocked her purse to the pavement. Though she would have sworn that she had already closed it all up it popped open, spilling nearly everything in it onto the street.

Her patience was wearing thin. She dropped the sweater onto the seat behind her, straightening the sleeves of her light brown cap sleeved shirt. As she bent over to gather her belongings, the heel of her left shoe turned, scraping it against the ground and leaving a scuff mark that looked to her a mile wide.

With a strangled oath she plunked herself back on the car seat to just breathe for a moment. “Some of the best things in life require struggles and sacrifice. This is just a minor setback, he’s not going to care that you have a scuff mark on your damn shoe, Hazel, but he will care if you are late. You don’t want him to think you stood him up, do you? Now get yourself together girl, and go get your destiny.”

Fortified, albeit a little wild eyed, Hazel stood and gathered her composure around her like a cloak as she hurried towards the entrance to the diner. A handsome man stood under the awning, smoking a cigarette directly under the No Smoking sign. Couldn’t be him, there was no way he would have a habit as common and smelly as smoking. The man eyed Hazel sideways as she scurried past him to reach for the door, stifling a laugh at the disheveled woman who probably didn’t know that she had some kind of stain on the knee of her pants.

As her fingers closed around the old timey wrought iron handle, a sudden gust of wind blew so strongly that the cherry of the man’s hand rolled cigarette blew right off the end and hit Hazel’s hand. It jumped away from the door handle and she spun around indignantly to tell the man just what she thought of his nasty habit, but he was gone. Startled, Hazel looked down the street but he was already half a block away. She shook off the moment and reached to open the door again, barely jumping out of the way as a couple too tipsy for early afternoon came barreling out of it. They giggled to each other and nodded a greeting to Hazel as they weaved away.

With grim determination Hazel gripped the side of the door before it could swing shut again and stepped into the diner. Marching forward, all thought of a gliding entrance forgotten, she stopped short at the hostess podium.

“May I help you?” asked the woman with lovely raven colored hair behind it.

Nonplussed, Hazel just stared for a moment. “Um…I have a lunch date. Today, at noon. I’m supposed to meet him here. At noon.”

The woman kept her eyes averted so Hazel wouldn’t catch the amusement in them. “Name?”

“Oh. Um. I’m not sure, I couldn’t read his letter.” She thought for a moment. “He’s dying to see me, though,” she added, with a winsome smile.

Now the hostess kept her eyes averted to hide the pity mixed in with the amusement. “I’m sure he is. Since you haven’t met him yet, I assume that you don’t know what he looks like?” Hazel shook her head, no. “Does he know what you look like?”

Hazel’s mounting panic was interrupted by a polite cough behind her, followed by a voice as mellow as aged scotch. “Excuse me, are you Hazel?” For a moment, Hazel watched the reaction on the raven haired woman’s beautiful face. Her eyes widened and warmed with surprise and appreciation, her lips parted as she let out a soft breath. Oh my.

Hazel turned into the hand that cupped her elbow gently, and her gaze travelled up to the face of the man who stood less than a foot behind her. He was dark where she had expected light, but her fantasy did an immediate re-write to include deep eyes that glittered like obsidian chips under straight strong brows, full dark pink lips currently curved into a hesitant smile over a cleft chin, and thick almost black hair that fell rakishly to his shoulders.

“Yes, yes, I’m Hazel. You must be…”she faltered as she realized she had no name for him. As his smile widened, for just a moment, something flickered in those shining eyes, something that felt cold, sepulchral and cold. A trick of the light, she admonished her racing heart. Her mind tried to quietly point out all the strange happenings that seemed almost contrived to keep her out of this diner. There are warning bells clanging somewhere in here, her mind said, if you would just stop and listen for a moment.

“You’re everything that I thought you would be Hazel,” he claimed. Taking her hand in both of his, his bent to touch his lips lightly to her knuckles. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”


The Fab Four Fable was started as a colloboration between some of the original members of Sinistral Scribbling’s Master Class writing meme. SAM from My Write Side wrote the first part of this go round and tagged me to write the second. For the third part, I’m tagging David Wiley at Scholarly Scribe, which will leave Eric at Sinistral Scribblings to finish it off. Really? It’s so much fun….

The rules for the Fab Four Fables are as follows:


1. No one will be privy to the story until it is posted.

2.The next person won’t know who they are until they are tagged, when the post goes live.

3. The person publishing the most recent part must adhere to the following:

  • choose the next person to write the story
  • keep the title and stay within the genre provided
  • provide an image of their choice at the top of their post that relates to their piece
  • the story must continue as a whole and not combined with any other prompt or meme

4. There is no word count or time limit.

David, it’s all on you kid 🙂


Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , , | 9 Comments

The Third Go Round – Master Class

Storch-Badge-Masteri write this sitting in the kitchen sink.  mother thinks it’s just aDORable the way my ‘ickle chubby legs’ splash about.  very condescending, i must say.  for as much attention as she pays to me, i admit i find it surprising that she has left me in here unattended.  it is nice to have these moments to myself.  this is my third go round on Earth, and someone made a whopper of a mistake this time around, as i have retained both my memories and my motor skills.  i am sure that this was unintended and presents me with an interesting conundrum, behaving as a baby should behave in a tiny uncoordinated body.  i can hear that confounded woman clattering her way back here now.


nap time.  mother is convinced that she has birthed the perfect baby.  i don’t take sick and i rarely cry, unless i’m hungry or i need my diaper changed.  i am not particularly amused by these necessities.  if i was just a little bit taller i could pull myself up on to the toilet and not have to shit myself in these little cloth scraps she insists on calling nappies.  i cannot count how many times i catch myself beginning to speak in complete sentences, even though my under-developed vocal cords would probably garble the sounds into incomprehension.  mostly i stop myself from saying things like ‘how about we put that jar of disgusting sweet potato mash back on the shelf and get me some more of those damn bananas’.  i am starting to get a little sleepy.  perhaps a nap would not be out of the question.


so far i am six months into this iteration of self.  the last time i was sent back as a cat, so i suppose that means my character grew enough that i am being given another shot at improving upon my humanity.  where is that woman with my sweet potatos?!  i may have to give this crying thing more credit.  oh.  apparently i also need my nappy changed.  how did i not notice that?  mommy?


i fear that someone has noticed their mistake and is taking steps to rectify it.  my thoughts are easily distracted by the colorful animals that dance in a circle over my head and my letters are getting clumsier even as i write this.  this infernal pacifier she keeps shoving in my mouth is so oddly comforting i find myself drifting off in the most unlikely places.  i hope we can take doggy for a walk today.  i like doggy.  i’m hungry.  i’m wet.


i want my mommy.  want blankie.  hungry.


The Master Class Spring Semester is in full swing.  Eric at Sinistral has once again taken up his post as Headmaster of a bunch of unruly bloggers, to let us have at the first line of a published work with our own spin.  Newcomer to Master Class Kir (from was given the honor of choosing the first line this round and went with Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink”.

All I could see when I read that was a baby being given a bath, and from there I just had to make sure that my voice didn’t sound too much like Stewie Griffin 🙂

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , | 17 Comments

Thanks Anyways



Thanks Anyways…

The house stood on a slight rise just at the edge of the village. Behind the house there was a slightly rickety deck that boasted wooden lawn furniture pieced together from curb shopping in the fancier part of town and a view that boasted not much more than dirt.

A woman sat on one the chairs in a ratty bathrobe that jarred with the rest of her appearance. She clutched a tiny and grimy striped towel in her left hand like she was trying to wring its terry cloth neck. The battered Ford parked on the gravel to her right belonged to the Prefect of the local coven. It was not normally in their nature to have a Prefect and the title was made up and presumptuous, but it fed the man’s ego enough to keep him around to teach them what he knew, which was everything. He had promised them the ultimate answers, to life, the universe, everything.

As the woman raised the towel to dab at the corner of her mouth, the weak sunlight hit a swelling bruise on the side of her face and the towel added a drop of blood to the rest of its stains. She pulled her legs up underneath herself, smiled a smile that brought a twinge of pain, and hummed a tuneless little song as her mind roamed out and into the cosmos.

At a noise behind her she turned. A man stood in the back doorway to the house, leaning against the doorjamb with a sense of satiated self-congratulation. “I told you resistance was useless” he told the woman, who was called Tricia although she wasn’t very fond of it.

“Yes, Marvin, you are a veritable satyr of the glen. Being with you, one would almost think that you had a third arm and a second mouth and a brain the size of a planet to bring such creativity to the carnal pleasures of life.” She cut off with a giggle as he pounced on her, a mock roar as he nudged into the chair next to her.

“Your sarcastic hyperbole drives me crazy,” he muttered, nuzzling into her sweet smelling neck and breathing deep. “I am really sorry about your face though, beautiful. Not that I minded where you were headed but you surprised the shit out of me. So, ten out of ten for style, but minus several million for good thinking.”

“Yeah, well, next time don’t panic,” she muttered, still half giggling as his fingers danced the robe off of one bare shoulder. “What do you want to do today? I don’t have to work until four, so I’d like to enjoy some of the day first.” Her giggles hitched as his teeth grazed her skin and she shoved his head away. “No, you idiot, I want to enjoy outside today, it’s gorgeous and it’s perfect for you to show me that scrying spell you were talking about last week.”

Marvin stood with a good natured grumble, his own bathrobe in a slight sense of disarray that had nothing to do with his maneuvering on the chaise. “Blah blah blah! What’s the point of being a sexy bastard when all they want you for is your mind? Fine, go get dressed, five minutes or you’re gonna be undressed.”

“Sir, yes sir!” she snapped a smart salute and stood to follow him back inside. The house cats, Magra and Thea, came bounding up the deck stairs from wherever their nighttime ramblings had taken them and twined about her legs, almost sending her crashing down. “I swear to god, you idiots want to murder me don’t you?” She scratched each one of them between their ears and shoved them off. “Seriously, if you try to trip me on the stairs I’ll make kitschy little purses out of your hides.”

Marvin overheard the exchange as he came out of the bathroom and laughed. “You have yourself a heart of gold Tricia, truly. No wonder your spirit guide is an animal.” The cats ran over to him and meowed until he picked them both up and nuzzled their fur the same way he had just nuzzled Tricia’s neck moments ago. The smile on his face was genuine; cats might be assholes but when they loved you it was without reservation. At least until they get hungry and as their mewling turned plaintive he carried them off towards the kitchen.


The sun dappled river bank was calm and the water sluggish. Overhanging branches provided both shade and obstacles as they made their way further into the quiet valley. Marvin held his hand out to stop Tricia’s movement and stood still for a moment. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back to face the sky and took a deep breath, holding it in his belly. As he let it out slowly, his hand dropped to his side and he folded gracefully to the ground, kneeling. “Here, this is perfect,” he said happily, and tugged Tricia down to kneel beside him.

From the laughing and loving man of this morning Marvin segued into the teacher, the lecturer, the Elder. At only 42, he was the youngest of the initiates and quite possibly the one with the most promise in centuries. If he could bring an apprentice along with him on his rise, he greatly wished for it to be Tricia. First, of course, there was a test to determine whether or not she could even sense the ether, let alone attempt to understand or direct it.

Filled with a complicated mixture of elation and gravity, Tricia knelt calmly and watched as Marvin’s fingers began to describe a series of complicated motions in the air before him. She felt a frisson of almost erotic excitement as she saw a faint disturbance around his hands, almost as if the symbols he was drawing on nothing were being written in the very air. She smiled openly as the hair on her arms stood up. Already she knew, she could see the ether, she could feel it. She had already passed the first test and only had to wait for Marvin to finish and see.

Marvin turned to her, ready to begin his instruction, and fell backwards as he gaped. “Tricia!” He righted himself and stared at her, disbelieving. It had to be impossible, or at the very least highly improbable. He felt his power pulling itself like invisible threads from every molecule in his body. Finite threads twisting and stranding into coiled ropes that started to flow into his fingertips and collect, coagulate. The ether around Tricia thickened until he was seeing her through a wavering distorted mist, could barely see the uncertain but smiling visage through the streams of power.

“You’re a Kavula!” Marvin screamed, trying to penetrate through the mist that seemed to be circling him, looking for a way in. Tricia’s head cocked, she pointed to her ear and shrugged. “You’re a Kavula, you must get away from me, now! You will kill me!”

Tricia tried to stand up, had to place a palm flat on the ground for assistance, gravity felt like it was working overtime to keep her in place. She couldn’t hear a word that Marvin was saying but from the stricken look on his face he obviously needed her help. Why wouldn’t her damn legs work? A tingling sensation had started in her feet, and her fingertips and her scalp, not unpleasant but somehow invasive. “What are you saying?” she yelled in frustration. “What are you saying?”

With so much of his power now housed in his extremities making any sort of purposeful motion look like a bag of skin that had no bones blowing in the wind, Marvin spelled the word in the air. The shimmering aftermath left behind now looked to Tricia like words written in fire. K.A.V.U.L.A.

“Oh, no, no, nonononononono!” she shrieked, trying to back away. The power was having none of it though, bursting through Marvin’s pores like sprays of sweat and blood and diving for Tricia. There was no pain, just sensations, filling her to the brim and beyond with an aura that overtook any essence that had belonged to Tricia alone. She wept, silently, as all that Marvin had taught her about Kavula’s was remembered. She wept as she killed him.

The Kavula were an ancient race, possibly the ancient race. It was said that working spells used to be as common as working the fields, and just as natural. Born with the source of all essential magics inside them, they were a peaceful people, rulers who did not hold themselves above those without. As life moved forward, as times got hard or the earth grew fallow, the Kavula decided to share their magic with carefully selected people. The apprenticeship training was hard and had many levels; generally only one out of five survived the first few levels. The ones that survived were imbued with a diluted source of magic, a gift freely given to those who had earned it.

The more the well of power was spread out, the less Kavula there were. Eventually there was one born maybe every century or two. It was possible for a Kavula to be born to unsuspecting parents and live out a completely normal lifespan and die just like anyone else. However, if one happened to be around a skilled Elder, or Prefect or Sage, the magic would recognize this original source and flee its bindings to inhabit its vessel once again. This procedure did not bode well for its current resident, who without fail did not survive.

Amidst of maelstrom of crackling energy, Tricia was finally able to move forward and lean down to kiss Marvin’s brow. A tear dripped from the tip of her nose onto his handsome face. “So long,” she whispered, “and thanks for all the tricks.”


The Master Class prompt this week was chosen by David at the Scholarly Scribe. The fact that he chose the first line from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy made me like him even more than I already did. Douglas Adams is one of my all-time favorite authors that I can read and re-read countless times. The man was an intelligent hysterical comedic genius. I used as many references as I possibly could, and pulled some lines directly because they were my favorites, and this story is nothing but homage to his brilliance. Ha, one of the references I didn’t even realize I made at the time, and when I re-read it I admit my nerd sense tingled with my self-perceived cleverness (kind of like a spidey sense but with less sticky stuff).

Story powered by 1200 Micrograms, Live in Brazil. I’m pretty sure they’re aliens.

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , , , | 5 Comments

The World of Games

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. His feet, wrapped only in the same tough black cloth that his pants were made of, sank and kicked up sand in rhythm with his staggering steps.
A bullet winged past his right side and he stumbled into a semblance of a zig zag pattern as it poofed up a cloud of sand about two feet in front of him.

His eyes wheeled, searching for a mound of sand that would indicate a Hole. There was nowhere to hide in the Desert World, nothing to brandish as a weapon. Black clothing stood out like a neon target in this monochromatic landscape, zig zag pattern or no.
As the sand sapped his strength and the sun scorched his uncovered head, the man in black finally spied what he was looking for. With renewed vigor he lurched forward, eyes on the prize, and another shot rang out. He stretched his arms out and dove for the hole in the earth just as a singeing pain on his left calf twanged his nerves and forced out an involuntary yelp.
“Water! Water!” he yelled in a voice made hoarse by exertion and dehydration. Sliding into the Hole, careening faster than he had expected, he grasped at the scree and stunted roots in the tunnel walls as he flew past. Sand got inbetween his lips, rough against his tongue and excruciating on any raw patches of flesh that were unfortunate enough to be uncovered. He closed his mouth and eyes tightly and hoped that his call for water had been heard in time.
An eternal moment later coolness kissed his face as he felt the angle of his descent deepen. His free fall began and the man in black sighed with relief. He landed with a whump on damper packed sand, quickly rolling to his feet and loping crookedly away from the Hole. His entire body wanted to revolt against the continued exertion but he knew that he was finally close to having a chance at winning this particular game.
Scanning the Island World in which he now found himself, his gaze fell upon a piece of driftwood conveniently formed into a club and his cracked lips smiled for the first time in days. He hefted it in his right hand, testing the weight and grip, no longer noticing the blood that dripped from his bullet grazed leg.
“So now the game really begins.”

This weeks Master Class offering came from the BlogBirthdayBoy, Eric at Sinistral Scribblings. In honor of his blog’s anniversary, he chose the first line from Stephen King’s “The Gunslinger” and let us have at it. This story was also inspired by Hole in the Earth, by the Deftones, which is what I was listening to as I drove through a bleak and monochromatic valley this morning and *poof* – I saw the man in the black running for his life. It also appears to be brought to you by the letter ‘S’ as it seems that there are an inordinate amount of those in here…maybe I should’ve worked a Scryer in as well…

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , | 7 Comments

It screamed and screamed…

The doctor woke up afraid and was aggravated by it. The woman, Talia, he thought, was sitting cross legged on the floor a few feet away, cloaked in a smirk and a palpable aura of anger. Self righteous little twit, he thought.

Her eyes lit with a ferocious delight as she saw his fluttering open. “Well well, hi there!” she said, brittle and bright. She unwound her long limbs and stretched upwards to shake out some of the stiffness. The stark room didn’t boast amenities like chairs, or anything even remotely resembling comfort. This was a room for bad business and nothing more.

As she came forward the doctor instinctively shrank backwards even though he had already felt the restraints clamped around his wrists and ankles. Her once fiery beauty now held a touch of madness; her smile had a feral edge, and as the doctor noticed the flecks of silvery-white in her green irises his fear ran to terror that dampened him with sweat from his lips to his toes.

“Noticed something, have you?” A sweet smile, gone sour. “What’s the matter?”

“You…you’ve been touched!” he stammered. “But, how are you…how did you…what in the hell are you?” His words ended on a wail.

“What, this?” she asked, all nonchalance as she rolled up her shirtsleeve. “I was touched by your Roiling, Doctor, that’s all.”

Her forearm was brown and smooth, ropey with somehow feminine muscles. Except for one long jagged strip that ran up the meaty inner flesh. Sunken in a full half inch, like she had been burned, except that the grey and waxy looking skin had a pearlesence to it that glowed. Looking the Doctor in his panic stricken eyes, she pressed a short clean fingernail directly into it. He watched a myriad of emotions play across her face, pain and confusion, elation.

Talia leaned even further over, pressed the tip of her nose directly to Doctor Faisel’s cheek so he could detect a fever smell pumping from her. “Do you know what it did, Doctor, when we caught the little bastard and pulled it out of me? When we yanked it by the tail and threw it on the ground along with my blood, my gore? Do you know what it did?”

The Doctor’s mind dithered, close to shutting down and he muttered something unintelligible.

Talia shoved her ear against his mouth as her voice went up an octave. “What was that Doctor? What was that?”

“It screamed…”

“That’s right!” Talia threw her arms up and down. “Right before we smashed it into a pulpy mess of shit on a dirty floor, your creature screamed and screamed. “The really funny thing about it though, was that it screamed just like a human woman.”


this weeks Master Class prompt was brought to us by the talented SAM at My Write Side, who chose to use The Witching Hour by Anne Rice: The doctor woke up afraid.
As always I am delighted to be a part of this and I would prolly keep typing more but my computer is acting squirelly as all get out and i would just like to make sure that this gets posted…

Categories: Fiction, The Lark Council | Tags: , | 8 Comments

In the village, a house. In the house, a room. In the room….

“This is the room of the wolfmother wallpaper.” The old woman reached back, tapping a gnarled knuckle to the wall. The resultant thunk resonated more deeply than one would have expected.
The three solemn eyed children on the floor at her feet were captivated already; they loved Nana’s storytime and this was the beginning of a new tale. They shifted, suddenly smelled the pungent scent of forest, of deep and pleasantly moldering wood and smoke, and…noses wrinkled in confusion.
“Blood you smell,” Nana intoned. “The blood of life, birth blood, woman’s blood, the blood of death, and heat. This is the wallpaper of the wolfmother, red and burnt.” As if she were dismantling herself she bent, she creaked and folded, a warped and aged marionette, grasping the edge of the seemingly solid wall and tugging.
The corner of the wallpaper released itself with a susurration and spread out away from the wall to hang down, ripples spreading out from its center like moving water. Light flared behind the newly liberated wallpaper, flickering firelight with no discernible source.
The bravest of the children, or perhaps the stupidest, leaned sideways for a glimpse of what lay behind. The wallpaper snapped at her impertinence and she quickly returned upright.
“This is the room of the beginning, the room of reckoning. The room where the tally marks of your life begin and end.”
The polished wood upon which the children sat now scratched at them as they fidgeted, roughhewn timbers packed with dirt. Muted shadows cavorted across the wallpaper, grotesque and fascinating.
The children never knew what their neighbors called the old woman. They were kept mostly to themselves, and knew only that they called her Nana.
As Nana turned to face them, her smile spreading wider across her cracking face, the children drew their attention from the unfolding panorama on the wall. “Nana!” the girl gasped. “What big teeth you have!”

I was really lucky with my intro to blogging out loud (ever since I started reading them, many things have been turned into blog posts in my head ;). This Master Class game has been so much fun already, and I have to say thank you to Eric at Sinistral Scribblings for being kind enough to let me choose the prompt this week. I chose this particular line because Robbins has always been a very visually evocative author for me, and as soon as I read it I got an immediate picture in my head. I’m also totally grateful for the really talented writers who stopped and read my nonsense and said hi. I’ve read their work before and feel that I am in excellent company. Now, I’m going back to banging my head against the wall trying to figure out how to add the Master Class badge, because I’m trying to follow the corkin rules here, and I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING! Ha, except not working, which is kind of what I’m supposed to be doing.

Categories: Fiction | Tags: | 9 Comments

Master Class, Week 1

So one of my very favorite blogs, Sinistral Scribblings by the talented Eric Storch, has started a new writing prompt game called Master Class.  Since the whole point of starting this blog was to get myself back into the habit of writing fiction, I figure that I will just jump directly into the fire (barefoot and doused in accelerant) and link up my second ever blog post to a seriously skilled writer and hope that I don’t get booted back into the kiddie pool to douse the flames of embarrasment.

The prompt is to take the starting sentence and then write what you think comes next in 300 words or less (which was the hardest part, for me).  From DHALGREN by Samuel R. Delaney – “To wound the autumnal city…”  I decided to use the autumnal definition of “past maturity, or middle life”.  Here goes….

“To wound the autumnal city,” proclaimed a voice so devoid of inflection it had to be purposeful, “would be to deal an unnecessary blow.”

He was peripherally aware of the discomfitted looks of the council surrounding him.  Carefully now, tread carefully.

“I did not know, Commander, that the Lark was in the way of bullying.”

Vaunts face blanched and he half stood.  “What the hell do you mean by that Jemmy?”  His heated words were a direct contrast to Jemmy’s cool tones.

Spreading his hands like a parent calming wayward siblings General Tarkis spoke.  Almost no one noticed the glance he flicked towards the window port, towards where Jemmy stood.  Almost no one, but Commander Vaunt did.  “Left to its own devices, this first among cities is ready to collapse under its own weight.”  Tarkis remained seated as he spoke, and commanded the room merely by waiting until all eyes were upon him before continuing.  “The aqueducts are crumbling, their food sources are deserting the people to go to where the water is.  Those who have not yet succumbed to the Roiling are nursing those who were.”

Vaunts expression reflected a war between incredulity and rage as he searched the faces of the Lark Council for an ally and found none.  “We cannot appear to be doling out mercy at this juncture, we cannot hesitate to strike!”  A few of the more trigger happy among the council looked emboldened by this attack upon their military might.

Forgive me Talia, Jemmy murmured to himself.  “A suggestion, council?  We have already rendered their only viable trail through the mountains impassable.  I propose that we offer safe haven, that we gain a cadre of subjects who do not realize that they are slaves.  Or.  Or can leave their corpses to rot where they lay.”

Categories: Fiction, The Lark Council | Tags: , | 9 Comments

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