Craig Comer's Blog, page 14

Sword in the Mountain: What Happened Here?

An open pass through the hills, an ancient sword thrust into stone: What Happened Here?

Writing prompt, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Sword in the Mountain by Ben Thornton

Dead of Knight

When Ryan and Alex made it up the final hill, the city unfolded before them. They were in the Bridge Twin East, and just across the river was the Bridge Twin West. The buildings were alive with their classic purple shimmer, a characteristic that came from the tint in the marble that had been used to build them. For a city dedicated solely to the people of the Joined, it was a magnificent place. Amaray had always been known as the Kingdom by the Sea, for its housing of a ruler and its worship of the ocean; Eresther had always been a place of exquisiteness and bustling joy, filled to the brim with trade and deals and wine; Tuzedo was known for its exotic nature, a place where newcomers could visit and find themselves enthralled with the women and food and silk. But the Bridge Twins… Ryan loved them because they, though tilted toward the expensive and magnificent, were always for the people. Uvella understood that, and as the unofficial queen over the Free Territories, she honored the rural country people behind the Heavenly Barricade. The Bridge Twins were filled with farmers and other simple folk, yet the cities remained upscale to suit the guilty pleasures of those who worked all day.

“We’ll have to cross the bridge,” Ryan said to Alex, reining in his horse.

“I was hoping,” Alex said, eyes wide and filled with the gleam of the lantern light.

They made their way through the city, dodging large carts heading north for the country, and couples dressed like the finest in Eresther. Ryan smiled at all he passed, his body tingling with the scents and sounds of a place as familiar and welcome in his heart as his family.

They followed the gentle road to the start of the bridge. So high up, Ryan’s blood raced through his veins. As they slowly crossed, on either side of them the cities leaned down away from the bridge and into the distance, disintegrating into green fields.

“Beautiful,” Alex murmured.

“Have you been here before?” Ryan asked, soaking up the view. His nose caught scents of sweet breads and glazed meats, his skin prickled with the warm breeze, his eyes remained lit with the light from the painted paper lanterns.

Alex shook his head. “Not once. Elise always took care of the rebels in the free territories, so I have little knowledge of the area aside from Eresther.”

“I grew up here. For a while, it was all I knew.” Ryan tossed his hair out of his face and looked outward again.

“I would be fine not knowing anything but this,” Alex said. “My life has been too filled with travel and adventure that I have a deep appreciation for the lives that these people live.”

“My life wasn’t full of enough exploration,” Ryan said.

Alex chuckled. “I too have an obsessive love for roaming.”

“Alex, do you ever feel fear toward this rebellion?” Side by side, despite the carriages and people, Ryan felt private riding with Alex.

“Every day,” he said.

Nicole J. Persun started her professional writing career at the age of sixteen with her young adult novel, A Kingdom’s Possession , which later became a finalist for ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Award. Aside from novels, Nicole has had short stories, flash fiction, poetry, and essays published in a handful of literary journals. Her inspiration is drawn from the latest studies and findings in biology, astronomy, archaeology, psychology, and any other form of scientific, historical, or artistic discovery. She often speaks at libraries, writer’s groups, and writer’s conferences across the country. Currently getting a degree in creative writing, Nicole lives in Washington State. For more information, visit Nicole’s website at: http://www.nicolejpersun.com.

Website: http://nicolejpersun.com

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Crossing Forbidden Lines

The High Wizard Levieth stood up from his seat upon the balcony, gazed down at Darshun, then summoned black clouds and smoke. It materialized over the entire battlegrounds, overshadowing the mid-afternoon sun. The crowd began chanting praises about the Dark King and Queen with melodies evil in tone, hardly describable. This entire process meant to install fear into Darshun, as they normally did to their other victims. Then rays of light began to pierce through the darkness soon eradicating it completely and Levieth shouted aloud: “Let the games begin!” His voice echoed across the land like thunder.

A large section of the stonewall on the south end of the battlegrounds slowly ascended like a door and out of the shadows came the Six Champions. Two were sickly pale-faced Cullach, both wearing studded leather, armed with double-edged swords. There also stood a Barbarian woman having long scarlet hair, clothed in a dark green leather vest, a large silver belt with the skulls of either monkeys or little children attached to it and a chainmail skirt, wielding a battle axe. Then there were two men looking as if they lived in the wild all their lives with greenish-gray eyes, long scraggly black hair and rough dark beards. One carried a double-speared staff, the other a sickle. Alongside them, stood a seven foot Draconian with fangs reaching down to its chin, clothed in hide armor and holding a war hammer, the steel head twice as thick as its skull. All looked incredibly strong. The crowd cheered them on as they approached Darshun.

“A Nasharin skull would be worth a lot of gold these days,” one of the Cullach spoke.

“The skull is mine!” the Barbarian woman shouted. “I want it around my waist.”

“Now now, remember we cannot kill him,” said the Draconian. “The Queen’s orders.”

“She gets all the fun,” the Barbarian hissed. “Fine, if we cannot kill him we will show him pain he never thought existed. What do you say to that pretty boy?”

“I’d say these odds are hardly fair,” Darshun quipped, fancifully throwing back his hair. “So I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes closed. That way you all will have at least a slight chance of beating me.”

“Ha!” laughed one of the men. “Don’t you know who we are?”

Darshun looked to him in amusement. “Why of course…the ‘Six Fools.’ ”

The warrior threw his arm up clenching a fist. “Insolent creature! Each of us has been trained in the Fighting Arts, reaching the level of Master. We’ve destroyed countless lives. A weakling like you shall just be another!”

“Are you through babbling? Because I am ready.” He closed his eyes.

Feeling annoyed by Darshun’s arrogance they slowly surrounded him, stepping closer and closer each passing second, then remained in their place, eyes’ strictly bent on him.

All grew quiet, the crowd, High Wizard and Prince eagerly awaiting the battle. A gust of wind passed, and abruptly the two champions—one Human, one Cullach—swung their weapons at Darshun’s head, attempting to split his skull in two different parts.

He sidestepped, swung his sword twice, once left another right and they fell to his feet face down, bodies throbbing. Still having his eyes closed Darshun stepped away, so the blood wouldn’t touch his shoes.

For the crowd, along with the fellow Champions, it seemed difficult to tell where he’d gotten them, for his speed could not be followed. Both the Barbarian and Draconian set a foot under their bellies and rolled them over to find two slashes aligned down the center of their foreheads and to their groins.

J.W.Baccaro is the author of the Guardian Series . In his free time he enjoys literature—fiction and non-fiction, playing electric guitar in the heavy metal band Rigor Hill, Consciousness and NDE studies, and thinking how to intertwine his thoughts about the world’s myths, legends and distinct truths into his novels. He lives in upstate NY with his wife Melissa, his son Alexander, his two German Shepherds and his three cats.

http://www.guardianseries-jwbaccaro.com/

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https://twitter.com/JWBaccaro

http://jwforbiddenrealm.blogspot.com/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=df-L6u1zvpo

Buy a copy of the book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-Forbidden-Fantasy-Sorcery-Guardian-ebook/dp/B00FP53P5W/

The Key to Everything

You toss and turn for what seems like forever. Finally all the noise and static in your head silences down and you fade into sleep. Everything is black. No sound, sight or scent. Floating. Full complete nothing… a pregnant emptiness. The deepest relaxation ever. You know you are flying, but there is no wind or sense of gravity’s pull to let you know direction. Not up or down. Not front or back. Slowly and gently there are brief caresses. First one brushes across your cheek. Another one moves softly along the nape of your neck. Your palms feel as if they are being kissed. A wetness slides across the backs of your knees. Hours later you feel a pressure right between your eyes. Sharp and unfriendly. Pushing harder, you struggle against the pressure holding you down. Skin cracks and the lock breaks open between your eyes. You realize now that what crushes into your head is the key. It stabs in like a drill bit, not spinning. It doesn’t stop. It will not stop. You scream and struggle but nothing moves when you tell it to. Your body is not responding to your commands. Trapped, a prisoner to the pain. There is nothing you can do but endure. The key rams further in, all the way to the wave-engraved hilt and stops. It turns counterclockwise spinning around slowly. One revolution…two revolutions…three revolutions…you feel your brain being twisted and mulched…four revolutions…you can’t scream anymore, the agony is so sharp…five revolutions…everything goes dark…six revolutions…you try to think of your family…

“Seven, Daddy, seven.” Jason’s voice jolts you awake. You leap out of bed fighting to slow your heart and catch your breath. The sheets and your nightclothes are completely soaked with sweat. “Seven, Daddy, seven.” Jason’s voice sounds far away. He stands in the doorway holding his hand out in the dark.

“Jason? Hey buddy, are you ok?” You shake your head to get out of the dream and start walking to your son. The clock on the night table reads 12:07.

“Seven, Daddy, seven.” Still reaching out in the darkness, he begins to back up into the hallway.

Emily stirs and sits up, “Auden? What’s going on?”

You keep walking towards Jason as he backs further away. “I don’t know. Jason’s sleepwalking, I think.”

“Seven, Daddy, seven.” Arm stretched out to nothing, he moves strangely backwards, floating. The image of the boy blurs in the light shining up from the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey Jason.” You clap your hands. “Wake up, pal.” Following him down the hallway, you notice he is getting closer to the stairs.

“What did he say?” Emily follows you into the hall.

“I think he’s saying ‘seven.’”

“What?”

“I have no idea. But he won’t wake up.”

“Seven, Daddy, seven.” Jason turns just before the stairs and begins backing into his room. Your heartbeat slows down a little in relief.

“At least he won’t fall down the stairs,” you say as Emily runs past you into Jason’s room.

“Jason.” She grabs his arms and shakes him hard. “Wake up, honey.”

“Seven, Daddy, seven.” His eyes stare blankly with black unfocused pupils completely dilated.

Jason sits down on his bed with his eyes stretched open. Stiff as a board he lays back and pulls the covers up to his chin. Emily stands above him crying. Putting your arms around her from behind you can feel her shaking. You can’t blame her. You’re scared out of your shit too. You don’t even bother trying to comfort her.

“I’m going to throw up.” Emily pulls away and runs to the bathroom.

You head down the hall to help her and glance back at Jason. His head snaps hard to the right and he stares directly into your eyes.

“Seven, Daddy, seven. SEVEN DADDY SEVEN.SEVEN SEVEN SEVNSEVENSEVENSEVENSEVEN…”

You launch yourself at him, cradling him in your arms. “Jason. Wake up please. I’m right here.” You rock him back and forth. He feels cold. A stone.

“SEVENSEVENSEVENSEVENSEVENSEVEN…”

You don’t want to. The very idea of doing it brings a stabbing pain in your stomach. Your hand reaches out, swings through the air and slaps him hard across the cheek. Immediate silence. Jason looks at you, stunned. He starts to sob, tears pouring down his face.

“Why did you hit me, Daddy?” He pushes you and recoils into the headboard. “Why did you hit me?”

Emily runs in the doorway and jumps over you to get to her child. “Shhhh, baby.” She reaches back to you with one hand and grabs your wrist. “You were having a really bad nightmare and Daddy was trying to help you.” She puts her hands on his face and looks right into his eyes. “Daddy and Mommy would never hurt you. You know that, right?”

“But he hit me in the face. I was asleep and he hit me in the face.” Bursting into uncontrollable sobs, Jason buries his face into his mother’s embrace. Feeling fear and shame beyond words, you get up from the bed. Rubbing your hands on the top of your head, you pace around the room.

“Fuck!” You slam your hand down on the top of the bookshelf, knocking the soccer-ball lamp and all of the books on the top shelf to the floor. “Just great.” You kneel down and start picking up the mess.

Jason’s words are muffled by Emily’s arms. “That’s another quarter for the swear jar, Daddy.” First a moment of quiet and then the three of you start laughing. It starts quietly and Jason looks from you to Emily and back again. When it lets loose, it’s breath-stealing, foot-stomping, rolling-around-on-the-bed, tension-relieving hysterics.

You sit on the floor as tears roll from your eyes. Eventually you catch enough breath to say, “How about a dollar for this one, big guy?” Which just starts Jason and Emily laughing all over again. You stand up and resume putting the books back on the shelf. You leave “1,001 Fairy Tales” for last just like Jason would.

When you finally put it on the shelf, it doesn’t hit the back and stop. It keeps going into the wall. Through the wall like it wasn’t there anymore. You pull the book back out and grab the soccer-ball lamp. Aiming it down closer, you try to take a better look. You see a dark crack where the back of the bookshelf should be. You turn to make sure Emily and Jason aren’t watching, and slowly reach your hand into the darkness. It feels moist and scratches your fingers like brittle branches on a dead tree after a cold snow thaw. It opens slightly, welcoming you inside. You feel it pulling you in deeper. Confused and frightened you’re screaming inside to stop and back away. Roaring to pull your hand back from the dark. Still, your hand slides deeper into the black. Farther than it should be able to. Your shoulder is pressed against the spines of the children’s books lining the top shelf. How can your hand still be moving further in? The branches dig deeper into your skin. Warm blood begins to flow down your forearm. Your panic finally takes hold and you are about to retract your hand when you feel it.

It’s cold and soft. It must be old, very old. You can feel the dust and something squishy like mold. You move your fingers a little to the side to get a good hold. There are no more brittle branches stabbing and scratching. You pull what looks like an ancient, dust-covered book off the shelf as if it were resting there next to “Goodnight Moon” the entire time. The blackened cover was probably expensive leather at one time. The faded string is still tied around the book keeping secrets locked inside. If you were to pull the knot out, the entire thing would disintegrate. You reach down for “1,001 Fairy Tales” to put it back on the shelf but it’s not on the floor. You look around for it and it’s already tucked away on the shelf exactly where Jason likes it.

Alex kimmell (the squirrel whisperer/twodoggarage/daddy not-so-much-bucks) is an accidental novelist, anti-rhyme-ologist, oxygen inhaler, carbon dioxide exhaler who often generates harmonious sounds with various instruments of different historical importance. his work has appeared on cool places around the 1’s and 0’s like Black Lantern Press, Front Row Lit, Dumb White Husband and The Wordcount Podcast. His novel “the Key to everything” and collection of short, horrific tales “A Chorus of Wolves” were released by Booktrope Publishing. come and join the neurosis at alexkimmell.com.

Website: http://alexkimmell.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/alex.kimmell

Twitter: https://twitter.com/alexkimmellauth

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15711734-the-key-to-everything?from_search=true

Purchase the book: http://www.amazon.com/Key-Everything-Alex-Kimmell-ebook/dp/B008BW98WA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397495502&sr=8-1&keywords=the+key+to+everything

The Uncovering: A Fairy Tale

This is a fairy tale. The Grimm kind. The kind where the woods are deep and dark and full of wolves and witches; where a mother’s longing for something forbidden means terrible consequences for her daughter; where the huntsman who takes the princess for a walk in the woods means to steal her heart – literally – right out of her chest.

This is Witchwood Manor’s gate. Iron twisted into flowers and swans, forged into curling leaves. It is very high and very heavy. It is rarely shut and never locked because there isn’t any need for that kind of thing here. The driveway on the other side is long. Winding. It’s a cobblestone affair that is impractical, but lovely. You feel something as you drive under the arch of the gate, some shift, some change in the air. A frizzle of something you can feel in the part of your brain that remembers every bewildering moment of your childhood, every story of magic and wonder and strange goings on that you have ever heard. You look around, expecting God knows what, but there is nothing to see. You start up the drive, moving slowly in the waning light.

This is the cottage where the Princess, who didn’t know she was a princess, lived. It is small. Made of old stones from somewhere very far away. The windows are dark. The curtains drawn. The Princess doesn’t live here anymore. It isn’t safe.

This is the hedge maze where the monster lives.

This is the rose garden, all gone to brambles now, where the Guardians were buried.

This is the fountain where the last girl lost her fight among the marble elves and fairies. While the dancing fawn looked on. The fight is over now. Long over. And all the statues seem to glow as they are touched by the last rays of sunlight.

This is where you stop the car. Here by the front steps. You get out, reluctantly, into the near darkness of a late fall afternoon. There is no noise. No calling birds. No leaves blowing across the vast lawns. Just a heavy kind of quiet that makes you want to get back into your car and drive away and never look back for fear of what might be chasing you.

This is where you have to be brave. The princess is inside and she is waiting for you. She wants to tell you a story. Her story. And she will tell you…if you make it to the front door.

Tab Bennett is normal — unusually, excessively normal. Her job as a bank teller is safe and secure, her grandfather finally let her move out of the house (at least to the cottage at the end of the driveway), and her fiancé fiercely guards her chastity, whether she wants him to or not.

It’s something of a shock, then, when Tab learns that she is the elvish queen of the fabled kingdom of the Inbetween. Also shocking is the appearance of the staggeringly confident and gorgeous elvish warrior who claims to be Tab’s true betrothed. Even amidst a steamy love triangle, Tab must tell friend from foe in an unknown world of danger, deceit, magic, and sex.

The first in the Underneath and Inbetween trilogy, The Uncovering sparkles with wit and unadulterated fun.

Jes Young holds a BFA in creative writing from Emerson College.  She writes Urban Fantasy and Paranormal romance because, in spite of a complete lack of supporting evidence, Jes still believes in fairy tales, happy endings, and true love.

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Amazon: http://mybook.to/TheUncoveringPrint

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Bruges: What Happened Here?

A real place in the realms: What Happened Here?

If you’ve seen the movie In Bruges, you’ve seen this bell tower before, but what was its significance? What lords ruled the town beneath its heights, and what role did its market play in the history of Flanders?

Writing prompt, history assignment, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Bruges by Craig Comer

The Refuge Chronicles: The Taming

“Tamed? What does that mean?”

Thutter’s words fell like music on the old mole’s ears. The tiny shrew had asked the very question that Patch had been longing to answer all night. “Ah, to be Tamed, my friend, is to be fully afraid with good fear. It is to fear the great Ellyon as the Code-Maker, the Ruach as the Code-Giver, and the mighty Uriel as the Code-Keeper. What’s more, to be Tamed means to be free from having to live by instinct alone. The Tamed are free to do what is right and good for the Refuge; they become true keepers of the Code and singers of a new song—the song of the Elders—the music of Ellyon!”

“So, does every creature need to be tamed? Do I need to be tamed, Patch?”

“Oh yes, Tut-Tut. For, you see, within all of us there lives a beast that needs Taming.”

A DIFFICULT CHILDHOOD

Atticus Krum was born into a very loving family. However, he would face many difficulties as a child. His father would die in prison after being persecuted for his faith, forcing his mother to take her son and flee their homeland. Atticus would be orphaned by age 8.  A challenging childhood, it was a beginning that was anything but normal.

A CURIOUS CALLING

Nevertheless, it wasn’t until he turned 13 that Atticus began to realize just how abnormal the rest of his life would be, for that was when he realized he could do something that few others in this world could do. Now to most, the ability to sense the presence of a great tale residing within another would be highly treasured. But to Atticus, this rather unique gift—knownas fabulating—simply stood in the way of his future. Since the day he witnessed his father’s arrest, picking up the old man’s clerical mantle was the only thing that young Atticus dreamed of.

But the boy would eventually remember the many tales his parents had shared with him—tales of the Legendarium. He had heard of the ancient fabulators—those who had given their lives to gathering, chronicling, and securing these special stories. Now, this was his calling. And like the fabulators before him, his liife was sure to become that of a story-finder.

Of course, the tales of the Legendarium are in no way his stories, and yet in every way they are his stories to tell. They are the accounts of the fantastic, the unexplained, and the curiously delightful. They are the tales of the vitae essentia (essence of life). They are the stories of an amazingly wonderful Magic.

Some call them myths; others call them fantasies or fairy tales. But to those who can see the Magic behind them, they are nothing less than a source of faith, hope and love.

Atticus never intended on becoming a writer; he eventually came to realize, however, that Magic’s stories were meant to be shared. And so now he spends most of his time putting pen to paper to prepare the tales he’s collected for publishing.

NOWADAYS

When not writing, Atticus enjoys reading a good book, studying something from his vast map collection, or playing one of his many unique instruments such as the fluba, the trongos, or the clackamore.

Today, Atticus resides on a small farm in the Midwest with Albi, his albino ferret. He is visited occasionally by his good friend Fr. Tuck (not the one of Knottingham lore, of course) and travels only when absolutely necessary.

Atticus does not care to be photographed and almost never smiles. What’s more, he dresses exclusively in black.  Of course, he says that the latter is for simplicity sake, but those who know him are certain that he is just color blind.

Read more about The Taming and Atticus Krum.

Heinzelmännchen: What Happened Here?

A real place in the realms: What Happened Here?

Writing prompt, history assignment, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Setting is more than just places, and at Realm Tramper we enjoy cultural tidbits and mythical histories as much as rugged landscapes and architectural marvels.

Heinzelmännchen spring from a tale centered in the city of Cologne, Germany. The little gnomes would toil all night so that the city’s populace could be lazy during the day. But curiosity, as it always does, eventually got the better of one of the citizens…

Find out what happened next here, or come up with your own tale!

Heinzelmännchen © Raimond Spekking

A Slice of the Author – Creating Setting

It’s long been argued that all fictional characters contain some facet of the author—to what extent remains a debate—but what about setting? After all, in fantasy and science fiction, the where can be more important than the who or the what. Who is Robb Stark without the cold north of Westeros? Or Katniss Everdeen without Panem and the Hunger Games arena? But does that mean that without living through a Chicago winter, George R.R. Martin couldn’t have envisioned the lands beyond the Wall? Of course not. Yet it’s interesting that he has attributed the creation of his Wall to a trip to Hadrian’s Wall in England. His version is just a bit larger and colder.

I have also hiked along Hadrian’s Wall. In fact, I have hiked it from start to finish—all 84 miles of it—and believe me, there is no end to the amount of stories to be found there. From the amazing views to the castles and fortresses, every mile is ripe with details fit for a story.

And I think that is where an author creates a setting. It’s by taking details of places they know and adjusting them to create something new. Whether it’s from something they’ve seen, watched, or read about, every scrap becomes a thread that can be rewoven into a new tapestry. Or to extend the common forest and tree metaphor, creating setting is like taking the trees you know and rearranging them into a forest of wonder that no one has ever beheld.

Garrett Calcaterra, author of the novel, Dreamwielder, has never lived in a labyrinth of ice caves, but he drew upon his experiences hiking around Lake Chelan, in the Cascades, and around Scotland. As he explains, “I got to experience Edinburgh and do a little spelunking in search of Sawney Beane’s secret lair. These experiences melded together with images I’d seen in documentaries about cliff dwelling indigenous tribes and the earth-shaping powers of glaciers. I came up with this sprawling ice cavern [for Dreamwielder] where an ancient race of humans built a city into the living rocks of the mountain and lived beneath the azure hue of the glacier above them.”

“The Dream Thief of Kuthahaar,” my story in the October issue of Bards & Sages Quarterly, grew in the telling, as the saying goes. Only in this case, the telling was of another story altogether, my first in the setting of the Immortal City of Kuthahaar, “The Kultar’s Lost Hand.” For that story I created a place with palaces and bazaars, a congested city teeming with guilds and a harsh ruling class, where the dregs of society found solace only below ground, in deep caverns the rich considered fit only for the dead.

But why Sultans and robes and sandals? Why not trousers and frock coats and timber-framed lodges? I didn’t set out to write an “Arabian themed” tale. In fact, I don’t consider the story Arabian at all. The idea for the story spawned from a movie I grew up with, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Yes, that one. Laugh or groan all you like, I was fourteen and it was the coolest thing ever, next to Willow. And it was the scene at the start of the film, where the thief has his hand lopped off that left an impression with me and started the story. I wondered: what did the man do afterward? Did all society shun him? Had he been a villain before? Or had he been respected, maybe even someone of importance? So the man grew a back story and a personality, and all the time the dwellings and clothes and scents and sounds around him stuck in shades of sandstone, with oils and incense covering the stench created by a glaring sun and too many poor toiling in crowded streets.

It wasn’t difficult to fill in the details. A trip to the local farmer’s market may not yield the same foods, but the feeling of congestion is the same. There are any number of candle and incense shops out there, and as for the desert, Southern California is a great stand in for hot and dry! And so each scene was filled in as I needed it, with details summoned from a wide range of memories. I just needed to pick and place them in a context that made sense for this new society.

As the details were drawn in, other stories sprouted from the nooks and crannies. “The Dream Thief of Kuthahaar,” began as I started to wonder who these Seers were who watched the city (a group of sorcerers mentioned briefly in the first story.) They worked for the Sultan, but how did he win their loyalty? If they had such power, why did they not use it for their own aims? As I wondered, not only did new characters spring up, but new parts of the city as well. A temple, parts of the Sultan’s palace, the lands about the city, all became a part of the setting as young Akil, the protagonist, wandered toward his destiny.

Other stories followed full of assassins and heroines, desperate men and cunning scoundrels. Hopefully, many more will come. All will be a fabrication, holding the merest slices of the author, scrambled and contorted, fried and blended, until the place exists only in the imagination.

For those interested, here is a link to the Hadrian’s Wall National Trail site: http://www.nationaltrail.co.uk/HadriansWall/index.asp.

You can read “The Kultar’s Lost Hand” for free here.

This post originally appeared on Tales From the Sith Witch, the blog of Julie Ann Dawson.

Castle Orchardton Tower: What Happened Here?

A real place in the realms: What Happened Here?

Writing prompt, history assignment, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Here’s a hint.

Castle Orchardton Tower by RigelZoo News