Thrown

The floor hummed.  It was not a pulse or a throbbing or a vibration, but a hum.  In the stillness I could feel it, see the flicker of the blue inset lines as they zipped out into the darkness in criss-crossing patterns of varying complexity.  The spot I was standing was a nexus of them, seeming to funnel each strand inwards toward my feet.  The lines didn't move besides the flickering, standing perfectly still in the heated darkness.  It wasn't oppressive since the air flowed and eddied around me, but it only carried warmth with it, scentless besides a faint smell of sweat.  My skin was flushed, likely a faint reddish-pink in normal light but showing more of a purple tone in the blue glow.  With nothing else to do, I started walking.

Each barefoot step echoed; off what I couldn't say.  There were no walls, no ceiling, just darkness.  My hands wouldn't reach anything above me when I stretched or jumped, and the light from the floor, bright as it was, didn't reach any hanging object. The floor was flat, in a manner of speaking.  Perhaps it would be best to describe it as a large number of flat, octagonal platforms or pillars that were each slightly different in elevation, sized just larger than my feet.  As I moved, stepping onto the lines that covered the surface of the floor, they began to strobe, breaking past the physical hum. The flash of light, whiter and less blue followed the rhythm of my feet as they echoed along my pathless way.

I wandered through the emptiness until I saw a pinprick of light extending up from the darkness.  Approaching, it grew higher and wider in my sight.  The center was a pillar, octagonal and thick, that sprouted up from the relatively flat ground up into the sky.  Springing off from the trunk at the center were the lines, branching out into the darkness on their own, more intricate than on the ground.  The squiggles and whirls were like flowers and leaves and gnarled branches all in one woven mess.  They pulsed with my steps as well as I strode closer.

I set my hand upon it, the cold blue-grey of the pillar giving way under my skin, crumbling like a dry sandcastle to the touch.  Inside were cords of blue and green and red and yellow, of purple and pink and turquoise.  They twined around each other, a rainbow of wire that throbbed with light as I stretched my hand closer.  The moment I touched them, their color exploded out into the lines of color in flashes, lighting up the landscape all around in prismatic bursts.  There was still no ceiling, no walls, just the ground and the tree.  I became certain this was not a dream.

Marrow Lost

The blade of the sword was slick with blood, clinging to the white metal edge.  It was not chipped, though some still said that it was made of bone, even after the hundreds of years it had wandered the earth, changing masters when each successive wielder's luck ran dry.  The man who held it, back pressed against a moss-covered wall, was too tired to stand by his own strength.  Still, the sword tip stretches out toward his hunter, pulled forward by its own lust for blood as much as the strength of its master's arm.  Besides the two men, the ruined bridge and the clearing it sits in is empty and quiet.  The water that travels by beside them is content to babble on despite the scene playing out.  Blood spatters in the grass, mixed from both men, map the progress of the fight back through the undergrowth, traveling for hours before finding the road they had encountered each other on.  With a snap, the blade lunges forward, passing by its crude, iron relative to bury itself in its hunter's chest.  The man was not worthy, but the blade is content to drink in such a failure's life.  Satiated, it sleeps.

Its master collapses, dropping the hilt, gasping for breath.  He himself did not best some famous knight in battle.  He stabbed an old man riding a horse through a bad country.  Perhaps the old man had lived in overconfidence too long, perhaps his skills had degraded from his youth.  If he had recognized the symbol on the old man's cloak, he might have been too scared to approach, but the moon had been covered in clouds that night.  It would be months before rumors spread that the great rabid lion had died in some lost and forgotten province.  No rumors would spread for the thief that was emptying of blood as he hyperventilated on the ground.  None either for his former partner who lay with a hole in his chest.

Something between greed and hatred enters the thief as he catches sight of the sword.  It was the sword's fault, after all.  It yearned for combat, drawing him into it, refusing to rest until everything was dead.  He was not willful enough to control its urges, and it was too proud to acknowledge his weakness.  He loathed the thing, forcing him away from society more than he already had been ostracized.  With his last strength, he pushed the sword forward along the blood-slick grass and over the edge of the bank and down into the river.

Ancient World: Part 3

To say that the street was shady would be accurate.  It did not just have a feeling of danger from the wet, creaking planks that barely held together as buildings, but the way that they leaned inwards over the street, slumping in a way that was halfway between looming and exhausted left shadows for any number of unfriendly creatures hid inside.  Darkness was not a commodity, even at mid-day on the street, and as such, the Black Seagull was hard to find for those who didn't know where to look.  The entrance was tucked away inside an alley that slanted off the street that itself was mistaken for an alley by those who were not at home in the shadows.  The muddy stains on the young man's black coat blended in with the blackish brown of the planks and the muddy path as he made his way down the street.  His backpack with most of his valuable posessions sat safely back at a more respectable tavern in a rented room.  Less to keep out of the hands of pickpockets.  He would re-stock on provisions and find a shovel later in the day, but for the moment he wanted more information, and this tavern was the only place he knew that might have a lead.  At least, a lead that wouldn't cost more than he could pay.  He was searching for the storyteller that had come to the port months back, back before he had gotten into his adventures.  Adventure.  He still was new at them.  It had been one tale, a tale of a stone obelisk that would whisk men away to fields of gold.  A tale of a magical rock, a key, that opened the way to wonders.

The light in the tavern was dull, like it had died and the pale echo of light was all that illuminated the dozen or so faces that drank beer, murmering to each other.  If the street had been any brighter, the young man's eyes would not have been adjusted for the gloom.  It was the same as it always had been.  A thin, long room sandwiched between other slightly more reputable establishments in the dock district, wall sconces burning low.  The old man wasn't there.  He walked to the back, passing conversations that went quiet as he passed, then started up in hushed tones.  The barkeep looked young for how old he really was.  Black, matted hair and a trimmed beard with dark eyes that looked like they were made of polished rock.  He had been the barkeep since before the young man was born, since before the rifts had been rumored to open deep in the wild lands of this unsettled continent.

"So you return, young master Thistle."  The barkeeps voice was low, with the barest hint of harshness.  "I expected you to have died wandering about after that silly tale, but fools have their luck."  The young man, thistle was not his true name, only smiled and pushed a small bag across the counter, jingling with a few coins.

"When was that storyteller last here, Greggory?"  His voice was quiet, just above a whisper.

"So you're looking for that one again?  Going to pay him back for the wild goose chase?"  Greggory leaned back, chuckling.  "No, I can't tell you that, the man has a high priced deal you can't match up against."  The young man's face tightened, eyes sliding downwards in thought as he reached forward toward the bag.  "But, what I can tell you is who else is looking for him, for that price at least."

The young man's hand stopped , hovering over the bag.  Greggory grinned at the hesitation.  "And where I can find them."

"That will cost you more.  An account of the route you took before coming back."  Greggory eyed the bag of coins.

"I'll draw a map of half of my journey and throw in a few more coins."

"Well. . .that might be acceptable.  How many more will depend on the quality of the map."  Greggory ducked down behind the counter, a few glasses clinked against each other as he rummaged into the back.  He straightened up, setting parchment and a quill pen on the table before stooping to grab a well of ink.

The young man nodded.  "A beer then, while I'm working," he said, digging out a few coins from his pockets and placing them on the bar.  He retreated to a small table, scratching out lines on the parchment, labeling parts, and drawing in small graphic representations where they were needed.  It became a long flowing line that ran from one edge to another.  Satisfied, he returned to the counter.  "Will this do?"

"Come back in two days.  I'll have a few people I know check it for accuracy as well as they can and I'll have your information ready."

As the young man left the Black Seagull, a few eyes tracked his progress, making sure to remember his face.

Ancient World: Part 2

A light flutter of wet leaves drifting down through the cracks in the land was the only sound the daytime transition made.  Where the trees stood up, thick trunks of ash-grey, the land drifted apart farther, revealing them to stretch deeper down than up, disappearing deep into the darkness.  The young man could only stare in silence, jaw hanging, as he caught sight of the cobbled stone walls that made up the sides of the moving pieces of land, soil resting on top for the first few feet.

The island of land his camp rested on drifted for the day, moving farther away from the glowing tree.  At times he saw windows on the sides of some islands, or doors, yet no stairs down, no lights or signs of inhabitants.  At dusk, the land moved back together, nestling around the tall trunks of the trees.  It was as if it had never happened, besides the position of the trees, the forest floor was as bland as ever.  He would need a shovel, he reasoned.  Jumping down, would leave him with no way back up that he could see, and his backpack was not equipped to solve the problem in any other way.  He also did not happen to have a shovel.  In the dark, he made his way back to the tree, pushing against it with pendant in hand.

Dawn light seeped into the cave, empty as it had been when he had found it.  A weeks travel was ahead of him, then a shopping trip, then another weeks hike back through the wilderness to find the place.  Treasure hunting was turning out to be more boring than he had anticipated.  But there was the magical land beyond the portal.  Mysteries and forces beyond human knowledge.  Some of the explorers thought the ruins and portals had to do with aliens or demons.  There were certainly tales of feral beasts and magical creatures that had been spotted in the areas around and beyond the portals.  Others tied legends of wizards of ancient past to the portals, citing their opening as some mystic veil lifting that had once protected the treasure inside from thieves.  There were more theories around, but the young man had been struck by something that rang of truth in these.  The fact that there were, as he had heard it, piles of gold, magic swords, and glory to be had in the ruins was the more pressing matter in his mind.  The way that the treasures got to those places was just another way that let his fancy wander back to the idea of being rich.  Such things, as well as what pleasures to spend the expected riches on, were what occupied his mind on the way back.

He was lost in thought about where to buy a house when he crested the hill above the port city of Rowenton.  Its docks stretched the ten miles around the half-moon cove that housed hundreds of ships, from fishing skiffs to warships.  Dotted around the cove were the various taverns, brothels, and fish markets that came with being a port town.  There were the market districts further in, large stone stores and bright crimson tents that covered a majority of the rest of the city.  At one tip of the bay, situated farthest from the youth's vantage point was the castle that sat watching over the residents.  It looked permanently dilapidated, though the defenses had never been bested by pirates or bandits when every decade or so some crazed group would see the wealth of the markets and descend upon the city.  It was in this town, in one of the shabbier taverns around the bay, the Black Seagull, that the young man had procured his necklace and the stories of treasure.  It was in that same tavern that he would truly begin his journey.