Martha.net

There’s a pitch to the deck, a tilt that never quite rights itself, and she knows the edge of the world is near.

Not a true edge, no, but the sharp sudden push of a moon hung too low that rips at the sea like a knife. There’s a standing wave where the water finally hits the point where the moon pushes hard enough to keep it at bay. She can see it, the white crests a lighter smudge through the heavy mists that haunt the edge.

On the other side… Well, no one is really sure, which is why they’ve put to sea in a bright-metal boat, hoping the second moon’s pull is stronger than the first moon’s push. They Gods that broke the moons are the same Gods that set the dragons on their eternal rounds. Call it a hunch, a dream, a foolish wish, but she’d betting that somewhere beyond the ice green wall was the key to whatever had sent the dragons mad.

There’s the scent of the impossible in the air.

She looked towards the hills, out of reflex, but the scent is coming from further down the valley. Blip is pawing the ground, carving out the shape of what Ali’s tasted on the wind. She can’t focus this close, so the horse’s muddy gouges are only smudges, but it’s big, whatever it is.

“And it was turning into such a nice day.” Paul is already starting to lug their gear out of the shed, unknotting the straps and buckles tangled from their less than careful storage. “Hey, gimme a hand– err, fang, will you?”

She sighs, a heavy damp wave that smells of annoyance and the tang of rising adrenaline, and shifts her forequarters up and over so that her head can reach. With a practiced roll of her nose, she hooks one the straps around her tusks and yanks the whole mess out into the yard with a whuff of near-boiling exertion.

“Ow! Hey, careful!” Paul’s scrambling backwards, face bright-red from the heat, but she’s caught another whiff of the madness and she’s in no mood to wait.

There are only so many ways to make a living in a medieval fantasy world (even one as unusual as Avenshark), which is how Gwen found herself apprenticed to the local CSI unit…

There was a long pause as the Fictive and Muse exchanged meaningful looks over their copies of the script.

“Hey, I did say ‘unusual’,” the Writer snapped.

“You want me to play magical CSI?” Gwen gave her Writer an unamused look. “Seriously?”

“In the grand tradition of Urban Fantasy protagonists: Yes.”

The Muse rolled her eyes. “I think your definition of ‘Urban Fantasy’ needs a little work.”

“What? It’s a city, it’s Urban.” The Writer pointed at the various vaguely medieval buildings. “And, hullo, dragons?”

The passing dragon gave the trio an odd look, and then decided it was needed elsewhere… posthaste.

“So: Urban, check. Fantasy, check. Now can we get on with this?”

The Muse and Fictive sighed, and reluctantly got down to work.

“I really need to have a talk with my agent…”

Technotari Tags: Fiction, Fantasy

There’s a reason the locals called them Thunder Reeds; the dry crackling pop of seedpod on seedpod echoes in their wake, explosions of powder-fine seeds clinging to skin and clothing alike. They’d only been in the canyon a few minutes and the small band of messengers already looked as if they’d been rolled in flour, or ash. Yula was immeasurably glad for the breathing masks Rikk had insisted they wear.

The scary thing was the reeds were a natural defense. Magic had tweaked their genetics long ago, coaxing them from seasonal to year-round seeding, but there was no whiff of it left in the plants themselves. Unlike most wizards’ retreats, the catdragon had chosen to surround itself with protections that alerted rather than dissuaded.

Which boiled down to the fact the group had no easy way to thwart Shell’s defenses. Rikk’s ability to null magic was useless and the quilldog found the whole experience rather annoying. Annoyed quilldogs were more of a threat than catdragons, at least as far as the canyons current inhabitants were concerned.

Yula had a feeling this was going to be one of those quests…

There’s a thunderstorm creeping along the edge of the horizon, and if she concentrates she can catch the faintest whiff of rain. Faint, but growing stronger.

Diou rattles his quills in annoyance at her sudden change in mood. The marousen is roughly twice her size, but wears a thick coat of fur and quills that renders him naturally waterproof.

“Ay.” She chucked the sweet twig she’d been chewing at him, still disgruntled at the thought of spending another night indoors. She was born and bred to run, carrying messages no human could be trusted with; waiting grated at her nerves.

The vines have grown while he was gone, enveloping the house in coppery-green leaves that glint in fading sunlight. Stephan reaches to pull down vines creeping along the door frame; Wren bats his had away before the poison has a chance to do more than blister.

“Home, sweet home?” Stephan’s more maudlin than sarcastic, but Wren’s already worked her way inside. “Hey, that’s my house –well, what’s left of it– aren’t you supposed to ask first?”

“Different kind of vampire,” a muffled answer, followed by dust clouds as bookcases collapse. “You need better hiding places.”

“Running for my life, remember?”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Good may have won the day, but Evil cannot be killed, only contained. So she sits on the peak of a long dormant volcano and looks out over her island chain. It is tiny, minuscule, remote– but it is hers.

They were lucky to face her, those brave few who ran her to ground, had she been less evil, less self-serving she might have chosen death instead. And from her death, new life would have arisen; somewhere, somewhen the balance would have been restored.

Instead she looks out across the waves and dreams violent bloody dreams, and another span of Golden Years unwinds.

And one day the waves bring her something new.

It’s grown while he was gone, enveloping the house in coppery-green leaves glinting in fading sunlight. Stephan reaches to pull down vines creeping along the door frame; Wren bats his had away before the poison has a chance to do more than blister.

“Home, sweet home?” Stephan’s more maudlin than sarcastic, but Wren’s already worked her way inside. “Hey, that’s my house –well, what’s left of it– aren’t you supposed to ask first?”

“Different kind of vampire,” a muffled answer, followed by dust clouds as bookcases collapse. “You need better hiding places.”

“Running for my life, remember?”

“Excuses, excuses.”