A short hobby I picked up between classes. Cairn is in my bloodline. This is my creative fix while game design and regular sessions elude me.
In a forest clearing there were five outcasts. Three young men hollered at a fourth man, the center of attention. A young woman watched from in the trees, smirking at her cleverness, putting that boy up to such a foolish game. In the middle of the clearing, the young man wrestled a thrashing matted hound of similar size, snarling and wicked. It’s black fur was sleek with grime and saliva clung to its lips. No man on the outside moved to help, instead jeering at the action.
The snapping jaws continued as the young man lifted the dog overhead to the low branches. He allowed himself a sly smile as his eyes connected with the young woman’s. Her smirk betrayed a childish giddiness at his vigor.
The hound’s back arched, throwing itself out of the young man’s hands. Crashing down, man and dog once again gripped one another. Dust kicked up in a cloud, obscuring them. The dog loosed a shrill yip. The man growled and then gave a start. The hound set its teeth just below the young man’s chin, drawing blood. The man yelled again, put his hands to the ground and got to his feet. The beast leapt, pushing the off-balance man down once again. It fixed its nostrils to the center of the man’s stomach and bit with horrible strength.
The young man’s mouth slid open with a sharp inhale. Blood ran down his lips.
With no warning, the deep earth shuddered and a fierce crack resounded like a whip. The dirt beneath his buckling legs tore as the grasses split wide and the depths received his crumbling form. Gashes in the ground grew and further widened the hole.
The four onlookers cried out, fearing the sudden chaos. The hole became a tunnel, shifting and stretching into its fullest form. Roots arrayed themselves like claws around the entrance as a dangerous invitation.
The hound was nowhere to be seen. The clearing was silent. Empty air was still. The woman called the young man’s name.
No answer.
The outcasts looked at one another, shocked into silence. Their faces spelled out their promise of secrecy. No one would tell of what happened. No one would answer questions. Not one of them would squeal. This was too far beyond explaining. Any attempt would cast guilt on them. All they could hope was that no one would come looking for trouble. Not before they were far enough removed from the scene.
After a brief talk, the outcasts snatched their belongings and left the clearing.
The king died in a fitful sleep, his son was to succeed him. The young prince was a wise and handsome man, adored by many. His succession was looked on favorably by most, but not all.
The prince declared a special ceremony before his coronation: any man of the court may publicly declare his wrongdoings under the previous king without consequence.
A few men came forward in the crowded hall to confess.
The baker said, “My lord, on the last night of every week I would take the last of the yeast home to help feed my family. I stole from your royal house. Please forgive me.” Some of the attendees shook their heads and the baker was pardoned by the prince.
The captain of the guard stepped forward: “My lord, one night last winter I left my post to drink at the tavern. I neglected my duties. Please forgive me.” Some of the court was upset, others were understanding, and the captain was pardoned by the prince.
Then the advisor stepped forward: “My lord, on the night the captain was a drunkard and a fool, I snuck out from the castle and gave valuable information to your enemies. I took money from the treasury and spent it on whores and mead in the name of the king. I poisoned the mind of the king with worries and terrors that gave him the nightmares that were his deathblow. And now by your own admission, you must forgive me.”
The court was in livid. There were calls for the advisor’s head. “Justice!” was yelled through the halls.
The prince stood silent. Shaking with passion, he declared, “You have used my goodwill and that of my father’s to your own ends! Now you use my own promise against me! Leave now, wicked servant!”
The court was in a violent uproar at this. The advisor left the hall, smirking yet untouched by the court. He walked from the kingdom and was unharmed by wild animals. He left to the open arms of the prince’s enemies and there remained as an untrustworthy hero of villainy.
Once, the Satyr snatched a villaged child at sunset and brought her beyond the world to a flat land of ankle-deep muck under an eternally eclipsing sun. An eerie pan-flute played across the soundless landscape. The mucked ground stretched seemingly forever.
The Satyr perched itself atop the only rock to be seen and said, “You are now my prisoner, but not without a chance to free yourself. Answer this: where in the plane is your soul?”
The child pondered the question, alone and afraid. She felt no wind here and felt little warmth from the stagnant light. “The sun,” she replied. “It’s the only thing I can trust to still be there.”
The Satyr laughed, rocking back and forth. “That which is less than half of what it was is hardly as potent as a soul. Guess again.”
She thought harder. “The music,” she replied. “I like the flute because it reminds me of better times.”
The Satyr laughed again, this time so hard that it stamped its hooves. The rock it stood on sank deeper in the muck. “The music has no more strength in it than a wisp of clouds. Last guess.”
Desperate, the child got on her hands and knees and began sifting through the muck with her hands. From there she found handfuls of dead grass and vermin. She held them up in dismay.
The Satyr danced with glee, the rock now disappeared into the ground. “Wrong!” it shouted. “And now you have no chance! That rock was it, sturdy and dependable, now sunk to the depths and without a hope of rescue.”
The Satyr then got on all fours like a common beast and gestured that the child climb atop its back. “You’re now my companion. Come, come! We needn’t souls to persist here: you go without hunger, without thirst, without memory of what has passed. The sky stays put, the elements give no discomfort, and sleeplessness is our cheer.”
The child did as commanded. Astride the creature, she was whisked away beyond persistence.
Once a traveler discovered a kingdom beyond the world he knew and was taken by the desire to learn more. Approaching a woodworker, he spoke, “Hello, do you know who rules this fine land?”
The woodworker smiled, “Aye, that’d be the king.”
“And have you seen this king before?” the traveler asked.
“No, I haven’t. And now that I think of it, I know of no one who has.”
“So what if you were to take something of his? An oxen, say. How do you know anything would come of that?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said the woodworker. “It wouldn’t be right. That’s the king’s, and that’s good enough for me.”
Puzzled, the traveler left.
Coming to a merchant, the traveler asked. “The king, have you ever seen him?”
“No,” said the merchant. “But I’ve seen something like him.” Taking out a copper coin, he showed it to the traveler. On it displayed the profile of a regal man.
“I say,” said the traveler. “He looks a bit like you!”
“I suppose,” said the merchant, smiling. “He looks a little like all of us. Even you.”
“Then,” said the traveler. “How do you know you haven’t seen him before?”
“I don’t believe I’ve seen him, just a lot of people that look a lot like him and a lot of people that don’t.”
Further puzzled, the traveler left.
Coming to a small hut, the traveler approached a seated man. “Could you tell me, have you seen the king before?”
As he came closer, he saw too late that the man was blind. “I haven’t seen anyone for a long time, especially the king,” the blind man said. “I cannot even see you.”
The traveler asked, “Then how can you know that there even is a king?”
The blind man was puzzled. “It’s difficult to point to one reason alone. The men who march through the countryside are the king’s soldiers. The ambassadors who ride through here to see the king are his guests. The people trading in the market are his people. Even without seeing the king, I know he’s there. I may never come near him, but I have evidence greater than my doubts.” The blind man smiled simply.
Finally the traveler scoffed and left. “What kind of kingdom has a king that no one has seen?”
The young man spluttered from a sleepless dream. Gritty dirt spat from his mouth. There was no light in the tunnel. From ahead, the young man felt a low gust of air, an elongated exhale that beckoned him forward. The young man looked back to where he thought he might have come from when the earth had swallowed him up. It was just as dark.
Standing, he stumbled forward.
The dark did not give way. The young man felt his eyes would soon adjust, but nothing changed. Nothing was all he could see.
The ground was uneven and divoted in several spots. He paused before continuing on. Was it too late to head back?
Then the exhaling wind became a gasping shudder as the air became warmer. The young man felt he was no longer alone.
“Between worlds, are we?” croaked a voice. “A little walk in the world below?”
The young man held himself back. “Who are you?”
“A guide… and someone who needs your help.” said the voice. “I’m old beyond reckoning and you may be dead before your time. Perhaps we can strike a bargain.”
“Dead?” said the young man. He fumbled towards what he thought was the side wall.
“Soon,” said the voice, clicking its teeth. “You being here in your state is an indication of the end. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“You’re a liar!” the young man exclaimed. “I don’t believe you.” Then he shuddered to his knees. He felt weaker than he had ever been in life.
“You need not believe anything,” the voice. The young man felt hands on his arm and back, helping him stand. There was no flesh on the fingers. The young man smelt dead and musty things near him.
“The trade is simple, one I made centuries ago: my undeath for your unlife. I cease, you continue on. I die, you live forever. No belief required.”
The young man thought as hard as he could with his head still swimming. Breathing became harder. Though he could not see, the edges of his vision were whitening.
He became very frightened. His breaths became shorter.
“I don’t want to die.”
No sooner had he said this than the boned creature coiled its legs around his waist and its arm locked around the young man’s head. He flailed, he cried out! The white outskirts rushed to the center of his consciousness.
When he awoke, he could see.
The darkness was gone. Rather, it was no longer a hindrance. He could see the walls of the tunnel and a great distance in front of him.
He looked down to see the skeleton of a man, warped and broken around his body.
His breath left him as he gasped. And he felt no need for the air to return to him.
He froze.
Stillness.
The air around him came back in a low gust.
Breath that was not his own.
He was beyond death.
In the village of the valley there came a crooked prophet of the sea.
“Despair!” cried he. “A drought is soon upon you! Store your water, as much as you can.” Superstitious villagers filled their barrels with water. Scoffing villagers spent their time making fun of the fools lined up at the water hole. “Drink up well!” they laughed.
“Despair!” cried the crooked prophet the next morning. “A windstorm is soon upon you! Secure your belongings, as much as you can.” More villagers became worried. They tied their carts and livestock to their fences and houses. The scoffers, though fewer, continued to berate the fools. “Better tie yourselves up when you are all done with that!” they laughed.
“Despair!” cried the crooked prophet on the final morning. “A fire is soon upon you! Carry your water with you, as much as you can.” The frantic villagers returned to the well, filling their buckets. There were no more scoffers once they heard the well was running low. “Out of the way!” they cried. “We need water too!”
Then the storm came. Lightning stuck overhead, the dam broke, the rain surged. The village filled with water and more water and more water. The villagers ran and screamed. Some discarded their buckets, others tried to untie their possessions. Most fled for their lives. The crooked prophet captured their shouts and cries in an old wine bottle. He stored them with hideous glee.
“Despair!” cried he one last time, riding away on the flotsam. The villagers, devastated at their loss and their blindness, left all they had behind. Nothing from the village was salvaged.
The greatest fool is the one who prepares for the wrong disaster.
DREAMING DRAGONSLAYER 