listerwrites

Chime the bell

“Don’t ring that bell!”

Her first words, or at least what I think she said. My mind from the time mainly remembers the grip around my wrist. I didn’t realise at the time, but she had the knack to not actually break the skin and cause bleeding, but to get her nails close enough to make it feel like she did.

It was odd for such an item to get so much attention. It was hidden if you didn’t look. It was just dirty and could be mistaken for anything other than a bell.

“If you want to have a consequence that is not your friends being thrown out, I suggest you stop here.”

I admit, my words that I used next would horrify me today. But back then I knew less. I hadn’t seen the next few years of my life, me those I would meet. I was still believing that a hand without blisters meant I was an expert with a sword. “Oh really? What is it to you then Gobby?”

The scent of blood filled my nostrils as her grip tightened. I can still see the marks on my wrists today, among the others, from that day. They are set evenly apart on the underside of my wrist, most people see the rope and burn marks. But that day was where I was first to see my own blood come out of my body. It might not be a story that many would tell, but most stories get embellished as the truth is often, too often, far less entertaining, or worse, too mortifying to remember.

A goblin face hung from above me with a smile that did not even attempt to hide the teeth, or the piecing red eyes looking at me. “You may be right. But then again, maybe you need to think about why the captain has it there, behind the front, high up on the shelves.”

It took me 3 boxes to be able to even think about reaching it. I was never seen as short in my class, and I never thought the boxes would hold my weight when I moved them. My best hope when I started was, I would crush the first one and retire with ale to say I tried. Somehow, 3 boxes high, I was becoming aware that I might be in trouble.

Threatening while giggling is how I would describe her later to people. The Goblin of The Bell in the town of Coo’mbe. “Oh, and call me ‘gobby’ again, and you won’t have a need to return to your friends in the corner.”

I never did see how she made the boxes move underneath me. What I do remember, still to this day, is how I had a sudden feeling of flying, followed by everything looking fuzzy and a pain on the front of my face matched with the bad of my head. Along with what felt like a broken wrist. First blood and first bone on an attempt to just ring a bell on a dare. There was little chance I would get away from not being laughed at when I got back to the table.

Her eyes were still glowing red when I came to properly. One foot was definitely on my chest, the other may have been but my main attention on trying to move my fingers.

“Now, there seems to be 2 choices, you can either walk away from this situation, and leave. Or you can pay for the damage to those boxes, buy a round and hear why that was a stupid thing to have attempted.”

Indignation was my chosen way to communicate at the time. I wasn’t used to people telling me no. “What do you mean to speak to me like this?”

The hand appeared in front of me again, but unlike her grip around my wrist, I found I was suddenly on my feet as quick as I fell. She later told me that she intended to pull with my uninjured wrist. Never apologising for not doing this though. Apparently, she felt I was in need of some learning, and not a beating, that day. She always was a clever one.

Fortunately, the other tapster on shift, Philta, helped me with bringing the ale back to the table. One at a time may have taken me a while after my trip.

My friends looked at the goblin, having seen what happened they took the safe route and gave her room to sit. Smirking, Jorna couldn’t help to push the conversation back to me. “So you failed to ring that bell?”

With her calm tone, which I would later realise was more of a warning than politeness, “You ring that bell and almost everyone in this tavern will throw you out.” Jorna attempted to laugh it off but quickly found a knife in the table between his fingers. I had never seen him so pale before. “You don’t know what that bell is, and that is just shown by thinking about ringing it.”

History was never a strong subject of mine. Learning about the intricacies of why a tower is set where it is, the impact of a river on how a battle ended for some Lord. Or worse, why a town has thrived through economic troubles over time. Well, hearing about a bell in a tavern did not sound like it was going to be a fun one. Fortunately for me, the idea of moving was as the bottom of the pile of things to do so I sat there. It was a story she told us that still makes me shiver today.

“The phrase is Chime the Bell, and that bell has more value than this entire tavern for what it means.

Did you know an arrow will find the most efficient way to fly through the air. The skill of the archer, now they need to find the right path for the arrow to hit the target they want to hit.

Most archers may spend days with a target at a set distance, shoot and hit to feel they have had a good day. The target may get moved, the distance changed, multiple targets may be set up to give ease of practice for those who have space, and more likely, the money.

But it is those who have seen war, that get the most practice. Those who survive were normally the ones who were able to hit a moving target, before the enemy reached them. There was a time when, before the unified kingdoms, humans went to war with humans. Before they went to fight my folk. War was not uncommon, but they were getting bigger. So for those who lost, a choice had to be made about them.

Let the defeated go home could mean they may rise again. Kill them all, well that would mean no one would know but those left behind would no doubt hear the stories and wish to rise again. A middle ground had to be found. A chance to leave some to live, to share the tale of the victor, but not one that made the survivors wish to rise again.

For any rebellion, no matter how small, just needs a small amount of courage to say ‘no’ to those who are ruling.”

Jorna, finding his courage again, jumped in, “Sorry, as much fun this history lesson is, but who are you?”

“Kajuna, and if you interrupt me again, my knife won’t sit next to your pretty little fingers. Now where was I. Ah yes…”

This courage, just like your finger boy, may come from ale, hunger, a sense of injustice, or a wanting of something else. But to stop this courage, a consequence needs to be known.

This was how the phrase Chime the bell came around.

No one is quite sure who began the tradition. Someone lost, someone won. What more does a tale need.

The army that won was facing a dilemma. What to do with the remains of the army who had nearly defeated them. Each day they were kept alive, meant more food being given to them, more water to share and more trenches to dig. To enslave them was too costly and risked someone trying to rise up, to free them would mean they were likely to rise again. But no one wished to kill their kin. So the commanders drank and waited for someone to make a choice while their own King was off somewhere else.

There was, most likely, yet more ale involved, all good ideas can be linked in some ways to it.

Someone, a rising squire is often suggested, eventually walked out into a field with a stick and one of the warning bells. Some say it was around a hundred paces. From the stake, the soldiers in the enclosure could see a stake being hammered into the ground. They probably couldn’t see the bell, but the stake and rope had their own meaning. Beyond the stake, the trees loomed with moon light spraying over them.

The bell was then hung from the stake and the squire wandered back. Where it stayed.

With the rise of the sun, the bell dripped with the morning dew. The red eyes of a commander looked on at the defeated enemy sat there in the mud. Bleak eyes looked back, hands tied behind their backs with loosely tied knots. All eyes saw the bow and arrows in the commander’s hands.

“We have decided, there has been enough death.” His voice carried over the heads of the men who had been left outside behind a set of fences. “There is one way this can happen.”

A groan of murmurs from the soldiers wondering what this generous one way might be.

“All you need to do, is walk to our commander and say you will not rise again, then get from that post over there.” All eyes followed his finger to see a post near the tents of the commanders and army looking on. “To the post over there. If you ring that bell. You can walk into the forest a free person. You can return to your families safe in the knowledge, should you live as you did before, there will be no follow up.”

Carefully, a lone figure stood. “You just want us to walk over there, and ring that bell?”

A smile and a chuckle followed. “You can get there however you want. Ring that bell and you can go home. Now who is your commander here?”

Eventually, eye turned to the lone figure who stood.

“I guess that means it is you. So, give me a number.”

It is said he was waiting for some time before answer, but then gave a number. Fearing what it might me. He may have asked what the number means but all he was told was, “Give me a number.”

The lone figure was told to go first. He walked over to the other Commander, said he piece, and walked to the stake. The field was silent. The bell was chimed. All eyes watched and saw him walk to the trees. Where he waited for his troops to follow.

Slowly, a second walked over and repeated. The bell chimed out. Another followed and slowly those who were defeated began to queue up to walk. Two attempted to go together and no one stopped them.

With each chime, a cheer followed as they waved back.

Eventually, when the number was reached, an archer stepped forward to release an arrow. Narrowly missing the man but hitting the stake, just before the bell chimed.

The chime spread over the field with all soldiers looking at the archer.

The line paused, but the commander motioned for the next. The next soldier walked slowly and the arrow landed by his foot. He began to run but the next arrow was not a miss and went square into this back. Lying in the middle.

All it took was a slither of steel to be shown of his sword and the defeated settled back to the floor.

“Who is next to Chime the bell?” The commander stepping forward. When no one moved a pair of soldiers went to pull the next in the line that had formed.

They walked over said they would not rise again. This time the soldier ran, a few arrows feel near him but the bell chimed. It was then he saw the arrow in his leg as he limped to the tree line.

Again, and again, people ran to chime the bell. Slowly, the field turned to mud, slowing the others who came after. Blood spilled as the bodies littered the field. Causing others to stumble as they tried to run, to turn, to miss the arrows when they fell.

It is said the archers kept a tally, but not for those who they killed on that day, but for how many arrows they could hit on target, but still get the bell to chime. A point for each arrow. But minus if the person didn’t make it.

By the end of the day, those who had called their fellow soldiers on, but seen them fall, left through the forest wanting to never see death again.

As the day passed, more ale was drank, more arrows fired. But many got to go home.

Kajuna drank her ale wiping her face clean from the ale before she spoke. “You may believe that humans haven’t had to have a big battle with humans for a long time, but that doesn’t mean it is true, or that those who have been punished have not been given the opportunity to chime their own bell.”

I was not sure when, but I realised at some point through her story, I could not take my eyes away from the bell. It was hidden if you didn’t look. It was dirty and could be mistaken for anything other than a bell. The more I looked, the more I felt I could see finger marks on the outside.

One of my friends, Hrika, was the first of us to speak. “Is that the bell up there? From that day?”

Kajuna laughed as she attempted to drink her ale. “Don’t be silly. That was long ago.”

“So it’s just a symbol, to like remember it or something?”

“Oh no, that’s a bell from something else. But I wouldn’t ask the Captain about it. But if you idiots try that again, that table over there will be the least of your worries.”

It was then I realised, 4 people dressed in Town watch markings were sat watching us. I would have thought it was the goblin sitting at the table that drew their attention, but all 7 eyes were on me. There was not a smile among them.

Volunteered

Where does the world end?

This surely is a subjective question for many. To many, it is where the physical plane of earth, the rock and the mineral ceases (if it does, unless it just goes around and around). To some, it can be where the last tavern sits before the gates and walls of the city they call home. Some cities have been known to have multiple taverns of similar name, causing many to attempt to trace a route to go drinking through each tavern and establishment through the city as they go. For those poor souls, the end of the world is not normally found in the drink that they choose that evening, but the feeling that they suffer the next morning.

For Roke, the 3rd Commander of the Goblin Guard of the 2nd shift, who had been called into the office of the representative of the Protector of the City Haven, he felt his world coming to an end when given the task of what is commonly called the, ‘Legacy of the King’. Which normally would mean everyone would hate you and you have to build something big enough to leave a mark at the great Goblin Gate, or have an impact on people’s lives that would mean the King, or some rich benefactor, could be remembered long past their final day. Few would ever remember the person who was given the take of administrator. A cursed role that few voluntarily wanted in any organisation, and no one was able to turn down without risking banishment, or worse, a never ending shift on the furthest outposts outside the Goblin Gate itself.

The only solace for Roke when being told his new brief, was that he had actually felt worse. A similar end of the world feeling when he finally, although supported by a few drinks at his local tavern, plucked up the courage to ask his the future Mrs Roke for a casual game of Siege. If she said no, his friends would laugh at him, but it would also mean his own world would collapse as he had dreamed of asking her to play a game for about 5 years, ever since his own growing changes began. It had always been her and nothing but, her.

Thankfully, she said yes, and despite his nerves, he even managed to win the game. He didn’t realise that she wanted to let him win as she knew he had been wanting to ask for at least 3 of those years as he hadn’t stopped staring at her when she worked the in the bakery stretching out the bread each day to be baked.

It is worth noting that it would be the only game she would let him win in their entire life together. “Let them win the first one,” her mother told her when her changes were starting. “That way, they will always feel they can beat you again, and keep trying to get one over you again.”

As a person who had herself, failed to keep any partner for more than 2 seasons since her late husband died in a goblin raid many years before, the advice was weighted, but no one could compete with her father, so her mother’s advice was kept. As has Roke.

So it was today that Roke was being asked, or more being volunteered, “You are being given the honour of reinforcing the 3rd tower of the second line young Commander.” The representative sat proudly, waiting to be thanked. “The village of Pillo have saved for the past 5 seasons to donate this, and we feel this will be rightly spent there, to rename it, the Pillo Tower.”.

Roke stood for a moment wondering how much a small village could actually save when he realised that he wasn’t actually saying anything. “Thank you, uh, Representative. I am sure that we will be able to make great, umm, improvements, to the 3rd tower.”

“Of the second line”.

“Of course. Thank you.”

“The money is being brought in with the volunteers from the village, so they will be eager to see where there money is going.”

This, was in one way great news. As it meant he wouldn’t be needing to now go around making people volunteer. Or worse, volunteer his own friends to support the project. This does mean that they volunteers from Pillo will now see where they money is going to go. But as Roke was about to be dismissed from the meeting, one small thing at a time.

The 6 seats of Pazgaa

Been a while since I shared something I have written. Life has a habit of giving other things for attention.

So while I get back to writing again, and looking at my humans, goblins and dwarfs. Here is a piece of history I wrote about the Goblin Wars I stumbled upon that I wrote nearly a year ago. Hope you enjoy.

—//—

There are 6 Great Goblin Chiefs who are buried together, they fought to unite the goblins under one banner. They believed that together, their kin could finally be strong and stop the oppressors of magic ruling them. That a bright future of Goblin kin would come their way and be able to rule for themselves.

It was during the Goblin Magic wars that they banded together to fight off the humans, led by those who used magic, to push them back through the hills and to begin the period they hoped would be freedom. But they were tricked, magic was used to dispel their reality and what was seen as a final victory, was not.

The final act of those with magic was to make the goblin leaders believe they had won, no one is sure how, and they were ambushed by the few remaining followers of the magic folk. At their victory meal, the Goblin Chiefs were killed and slain. Their bodies hanged and marked with images to curse their souls, just in case they have any. Humans believed they didn’t but wasn’t worth the risk.

On hearing this, the goblin horde marched on and, under the leader of a hobgoblin who had betrayed the chiefs, brought forth the horde to attack. After the battle, the 6 chiefs were settled into the ground, in the 6 seats of Pazgaa, the place to rest and watch over their kin for the future. A 7th seat was made for visitors who passed into these lands to mark their respect to the 6 chiefs.

Slowly, the humans forgot the use of magic, the past of the wars became legend and the fear of the gobilns overtook the fear of magic. A brighter time was described, ruthlessly cut down by the gobilns who were jealous, or angry, at the prosperity that the time period saw. Some knew the truth were in books and tried to decipher them, but most writintgs have either been lost, or precious few ever existed.

The time of magic wealders for the humans is one of mystery and misdirection to those today.

The 6 seats of Pazgaa to the goblins, is seen as a holy place in legend, one that should be respected by all. To some this means to remember those who died in war and betrayal, to some means there are to be no humans. The stories over time have been lost, the march to Pazgaa has become legend, and some humans do not believe that they even existed. But he spirit of such a time, a united Goblin, is one that many still believe could happen. The are those who see the decendents of those 6 chiefs, as something that should be followed. But there are also those who wish to see every last decendent destroyed, but for what cause is unknown. Even to them.

The Gesture

In the olden days, one, normally a man, would go out and buy a ring. Spending lots of money on it.

In the olden days, one, normally a man, would go out and buy a ring. Spending lots of money on it. Then the other, I think the word they used to use was ‘traditional’ and so would be a woman, was given the ring. She, as was what is shown in the old films, would then be delighted to later show off the ring to her friends.

What followed was often the man feeling happy but also broke, or smug about how much they had spent as they can afford a big one. The effort was to find ‘the one’, but this one used to mean ‘ring’. Not ‘them’. The rituals were odd as it meant setting up a future with someone and putting your resources into something that could be lost, or worse, just make the next stage in life difficult.

No one is sure when the change happened. All Rachel knows is. For her. The perfect moment is not some compressed piece of carbon attached to a metal band. For her, it’s finding someone who knows her.

This was how it was for her. People would often talk about the moment they realised they had found their person by creating, organising or doing something that, to them, showed they had found them.

Some of her friends had decided to play on this new idea and simply tell people they were slightly interested in what their desires were. For a time this was fun, but after having people do this for you had two, slightly surprising, consequences.

The first was predictable. Claire had told 3 different people, 3 different amazing ideas. They each, over the course of a year or so, did them. After each one they felt they had found their person, but Claire carried on much the same as the day before, except for having enjoyed the thing they planned for her.

The obvious consequence was that the the planners gave up, they felt rejected. One had tried to show affection by capturing a moment by walking to the top of the local hill, often called ‘The Hill of Love’ as so many events involved the hill, and showed his love by setting off fireworks on her birthday. A highly illegal action for the simple reason that despite everyone loving fireworks, it was a fire risk for the trees. But Tom did it. Went to jail. Publicly sentenced to put others off. The only reason the judge undid some of his restrictions was because after 3 months it was clear Claire could not care at all and the boy was fool hardy. Public embarrassment was a stronger message than anything the judge could do.

But after 3 big events, Claire stopped enjoying them too. Her story does not end badly for her. She was not the first to try this. But she is one of those stories people tell their children when discussing love. Some will listen. But not all.

Rachel did. She heard the stories and listened. Seeing Claire as they grew up confirmed it for her. But it made her slowly stay away from being centre of attention. To chose the quiet room to read or a tree to sit under and listen to the breeze around her.

So when the day came she met that someone special, she didn’t give hints. Fearing to repeat what had happened to others that she had seen. But after about 2 years, it happened.

Discussions of living together, growing old together, having a place to settle down started. The future was becoming less scary and growing old, together, was a happy place for her. Then Alex did the one thing Rachel didn’t expect.

A swing was made.

Alex disappeared for a few days and when they returned, held Rachel’s hand and took her on a journey. After a couple hours walk the hidden waterfall pass was climbed. To see it, the trek took you out to the trees and through rocky outcrops and be able to see the waterfall. Not many started the trek on the other side to see it, fewer would finish it to sit and watch the water flow over the top. Today this would change.

With her eyes closed, Rachel sat on a seat with the whispered words, “hold tight”.

Slowly Alex pushed and Rachel held on. Creaks and huffing followed but she held, her feet not touching the floor.

A call came “Open your eyes!”. Above the sound of the waterfall Rachel had to be told twice.

She had never seen it up close. No one had. Alex had built a private swing for people to see it. Others would come and use it. Others would sit and watch and dream as the water flowed over the side and fell 100 feet. But this moment, this chair, was hers.

She was the first and it was made for her.

Beginning the world

In a quiet, vacant part of space, there is a brightly shining sun. Using the scale of comparison, by those who can see such things, it is a rather small burning ball of hydrogen with a mixture of other things that can be seen when they come to the surface in an array of colours. Some have suggested it was an early attempt by the Gods to get objects going around in the same direction. Others consider it was a place for those deemed worthy to be placed away from others. Although the opposite has also been suggested by those who might feel this world is more of a punishment than salvation.

Around this sun, often called Miriam, spins a planet. It spins happily, if planets could have feelings apart from dizziness and the mild feeling of being sick. (Why else would volcanoes explode). But on this planet is all the known life that exists around the sun. The only other known celestial bodies is the 6 faced moon and 3 comets.

For about 450 generations, the dominanting belief has been the moon has 6 faces, each one coming out on a different night. This has, naturally, been analysed to have some meaning to those born under each face. For many have tried to predict what they may be when they are older. With many leaders across the world being born under a late summer moon the idea has stuck. Few have suggested that the pressing winter fuel and cold nights have had a notion to be a cause, but it has never taken with the masses. Needless to say, children of the ruling families have often been born at that time, and first appear after the 3rd face, where the crater is seen at its fullest. Symbolizing the great impact a child might have on this world.

Within this small system, there flies 5 comets, although only 3 have been correctly identified. Some have also tried to track these in the fear of predicting when the gods have doomed the planet to end and collide together, killing all life as it is known. The closest estimations are, not soon.

The original investigation came when a Prince had heard it might be the next time the comet called ‘the Shining light of the Mother’ was set to collide. Using his wealth, he set up what was to be called the Watchers of the Sky. From their work, mostly from old scrolls as opposed to tracking the stars, they told the Prince the comet would come by in 2 and a half years. The main reason behind this, was not for him to know how long he would live for, nor was it to create a lasting institution. But it was to find out whether he should marry the heiress of a neighbouring kingdom or flee with his childhood sweetheart, risking his life of luxury and ignoring his duty.

Being a Prince, he heard what he wanted to hear, so left his bride who was said to have a beauty that eternally matched the size of the Kingdoms wealth. In the end, his actions may have made her beauty frown slightly, but the Assassins Network was born from the eloping to find him and bring him back to to deal the Kings revenge for the his public snub. The Prince did not last until the next coming of the shining light of the mother, which did not end the world as he thought.

Despite this failed attempt of counting the stars, it made more people wish to track the wonderous things to see what could be predicted. This, at the very least, found that the ‘Shining light of the Mother’ flew past exactly every 12 years. Setting up the foundations for an agreed calendar that would eventually take hold for many.

Planning for NaNoWriMo

This is a goal for a person I won’t meet.

I have never really been a planner. There I have said it.

For some who know me, this is not a surprise. I like to be organised, I don’t always succeed. Files on a computer are very ordered. Folders in folders and all make sense and are logical.

But when it comes to trying to write short story, a collection on a theme, or even when trying to tackle what I just call ‘ze novel’, probably inspired by watch Snatch too often. It has become an ever growing mass of pages in OneNote, interlinked and so much that I have lost the plot of what the original story was.

I did find the different versions of ‘100 questions‘ idea very helpful, but this did actually just add more to the world creation as opposed to creating a story. (There is also this list of 175 questions which is also helpful with some nice titles).

For example, when considering the social make up of the ‘Border’ Dwarfs (Doesn’t everyone have at least 3 separate groupings of dwarfs?), the back history, the short war between them and the human community that lived on the plains that were by the mountains. How this represented the different doorways for the King of this kingdom and how this created the history of both these kingdoms. – This whole thing began from this one tweet using the word ‘bone‘.

The longer story of this encounter can be found here if interested. But I know what you are thinking, will this ever make it into ‘ze novel’? Well we shall see. The problem with those last 4 words is the same reason I have simply multiple pages of brief dialogue, back history, creation beliefs, religions and even games that are played. I have lost the over prospective of what I am trying to write. There was something that at the beginning, promise!

So with the upcoming #nanowrimo I have sat down and actually mapped out a plan. I was in a meeting at work but this can be out little secret yeh?

So I have a plan, I have added this to yet another page on the OneNote file. But I am determined to actually try and write this out. It’s official title is ‘ze novel 2’.

I will say this again. ‘I have a plan!‘

Will this plan be followed through as the month of July moves on. Time will reveal. I have the plan made for my older self, to try to write about 1700 words a day, for my even older self to have most of ‘ze novel’ to potentially form ‘The novel’.

The End

Where does the world end? This surely is a subjective question to many. To many, it is where the physical plane of earth, rock and mineral ceases. To some, it can be where the last tavern sits before the gates and walls of the city they call home. Some cities have been known to have multiple taverns of similar name, causing many to attempt to trace a route to go drinking through each tavern and establishment through the city as they go. For those poor souls, the end of the world is not normally found in the drink that they choose that evening, but the feeling of they suffer the next morning.

For Roke, the 3rd Commander of the Goblin Guard, who had been called into the office of the representative of the Protector of the city Haven, he felt his world coming to an end when given the task of what is commonly called Legacy of the King. Which normally would mean everyone would hate you and you have to build something big enough to leave a mark at the great Goblin Gate, or have an impact on people’s lives that would mean the King would be remembered. Few would ever remember the person who was given the take of administrator. A cursed role that few voluntarily wanted in any organisation.

The only solace for Roke when being told his new brief, was that he had actually felt worse, and a similar end of the world feeling, when he finally, although supported by a few drinks at his local tavern, plucked up the courage to ask his the future Mrs Roke for a casual game of Siege. If she said no, his friends would laugh at him, but it would also mean his own world would collapse as he had dreamed of asking her to play a game for about 5 years, ever since his own growing changes began. It had always been her. But thankfully she said yes, and despite his nerves, he won the game. He didn’t realise that she wanted to let him win as she knew he had been wanting to ask for at least 3 years since he would not stop staring at her when she worked the in the bakery stretching out the bread for the day to be baked.

It would be the only game she would let him win in their entire life together, “Let them win the first one,” her mother told her when her changes were starting. “That way, they will always feel they can beat you again, and keep trying to get one over you again.” As a person who had herself, failed to keep any partner for more than 2 seasons since her the father of Mrs Roke died in a goblin raid many years before, the advice was weighted, but no one could compete with her father, so her mother’s advice was kept.

But it was when The Captain, walking as he did along the river Co’ombe, which flowed through the city of Co’ombe where he lived, that he stumbled on something that brough his world to an end. Which was fortunate as a new one was about to begin with his discovery.

“What are you doing here?” A giant of a man, as tall as a man and a half, and twice as wide as any, his gentle demeanour was there as long as it was needed. Those who knew him, or worse, the patrons of his Tavern who failed to keep to the rules, knew it could disappear like a coins at a table.

Lying on the floor, wrapped in ripped rags and an orange hat held on by the ears poking through, was a small goblin. Having been a former guard on the Goblin gate, he was used to seeing goblins, they normally held a range of weapons aiming at him along with a snarl that still haunted him on quiet nights when woken by a brawl outside.

But today was about fishing for the specials at lunch as it was going to be packed for the Siege Tournament he had been tricked into hosting. Having a full tavern was one sure way of being able to survive another round of taxes should the farmer knock, and catching fish for free would only maximise his profits. A goblin would only bring trouble.

But this was not the Goblin Gate, this was not a goblin in armour and, he was not in the river patrol militia hunting for goblin raiders. Here lay a shivering, petite goblin, clothes torn and not a weapon in sight. The hordes sent in their warriors, even the rapid attack scouts, with more weapons and provisions than what he found that day on the riverside and caught in the Co’ombe.

-Take her back to The Bell.-

The voice was back, no one else seemed to hear it, but with its encouragement, he couldn’t help but wrap up the goblin in a bundle of wraps and add to his cart. It wasn’t a long journey back to The Bell, but when harbouring a goblin, it would not be an easy one.

Gifts for the new King

The new King, Tymorth, son of Daumere, sat on his throne as the first door was being put into place. Surrounding him were the gifts from the farm collectives that would feed not only his own kingdom, but had become the vital part of trade and the wider economy of the continent. They were all a reminder, that all Kings would never be able to have such impact as their greatest leader. It was this idea that had sent previous kings searching for a quest to rival it, only ending in their warriors to return, defeated, with their King on his shield to be buried in the Tomb of their kin.

The rough face of the young leader perused the hoard, each a reminder of the connections with the Kingdom that he would have to carefully manage, but also to the links outside the natural barrier that kept them safe from the farthest of enemies that might threaten mankind. There was the usual collection of gold, weapons, treasures from the past that to the right holder would have them giggling with glee to hold such vestiges of history in their hands. The axe that slay the last goblin Grute that entered the natural barrier, heralding such honour that it was the mightiest of Goblins to have marched through the kingdoms of man all those years ago. But to the casual passer-by, it was a half rotten handle that had barely kept its shape along with a heavily oiled axe head to attempt to keep it from ruin. The box it travelled in had been rebuilt countless times, one day it will only be a piece of metal, that if the label got lost, could easily have been tossed away.

What caught the young King’s eye first, was the comb, hand delivered by the Dwarves that live just outside his Kingdom. As jovial relations are with them, the threat they could pose was always in mind. All villages knew the horror that a dwarven attack could bring, every family had tales of what they had witnessed, who they had lost. The Border Wars was not just a story, it kept the warriors well trained knowing a friend can easily become an enemy, and a line in the ground does not mean the same to another as it might to you.

There were a collection of tokens, but the dwarf, who had been dressed in ceremonial clothing and armour, at least for that was what his advisor had told him they were dressed in. The rumours of the Dwarf skill at metal work and fine jewels appeared to be fairy tales from what he saw in their clothing. But those of the Hammer and those of the Smith were different to the Border Dwarfs. To their kin they were seen as wild, untamed and ones to be avoided. The emissary from the Dwarfs of the Hammer had delayed their trip for 3 days, to simply make sure there would be no time for them to meet, or even be in the same land as each other if possible.

His accent was strange, but one that was understandable to the young King. ‘Greetings young King,’ Was this an attempt at insult for meeting a freshly crowned head? ‘You have a strong line behind you and your ancestors will be proud. The runes speak of a strong arm for an axe, or a sword if you prefer. A steady shield we see in your future, one that protects not just you, but those behind you.’

It wasn’t until his uncle made a sign to do something that the young Kind realised that they were all waiting for him to respond. ‘My thanks to you, emissary of the Dwarfs.’

‘I am not an emissary of the Dwarf. I come from my own kin and we are here to welcome you to your new seat. I see that you will have to add some elements of the world to your learning in between your weapon, and farming, lessons.’

The mottled grey of chainmail and the wolf skins on top might look more for show than those standing behind the Dwarven figure, but the shining axe by his side and shield held on his back made it clear that he could use them if required. The young King looked at the dwarf, now testing the water with the him, the warnings of how he should be with them, and not to anger them was clear, but if his uncle was to be in charge, he would be doomed to be a King in name only.

‘I can see that we both need lessons, one of my understanding of the dwarven kin and kingdoms, and for you,’ a moments pause to collect a breath, it was only a moment but the stories of the young boy in front of a dwarf in the wars and the rapid changes that can happen in a blink of an eye, a slice of an axe, a moment can appear to feel a long time when there is suddenly one in front of you not attempting to hide slight insults to you. ‘For you, I feel we need to explore more how we shall talk to each other. We do not call our leaders young or make fun of them in front of others. It can be seen as rude and challenging.’

It had slipped out. His uncle visibly froze to hold his hand back, the phrase had almost been written on every wall in each village, never challenge a dwarf. The young King held his gaze and waited for what would be coming. In the middle of the throne room stood the dwarf chosen to represent the dwarfs who were called wild by their own kin, with 6 ceremonial guards to follow. Each with gilded weapons but the steel was there to fight if needed.

‘I knew you would be a good choice for this Kingdom!’ The laughter echoed around the room with a sigh from the guards at the door who heard every word. ‘I told our chief that you were a good one, your father always spoke of you kindly, but said you had a stubborn streak that was not to be tested.’

With the abrupt laughter, came an about turn, and they left.

No one spoke until the King’s uncle came to speak but the first words were the Kings. ‘Before you try to lecture me on how to talk and greet these dwarves into my kingdom remember, I am the King that makes the call to the villages to put down their seeds, and pick up their swords. I am the one who sits and sees the first shield come in from the war. I am the one who needs to not flinch when an axe holder is there in front of me. Leave my side now uncle. I will call for you after the moon has gone.’

Slowly the room filtered out, the entourage of his uncle followed, allowing the King’s own guards replace themselves elsewhere to guard down the corridor, leaving the new King and his personal aid to review the gifts they had been given and the great catalogue could begin for the start of his reign.

‘You didn’t need to be so hard on your uncle there Tymorth.’

‘What would you have me do? Let him order me around in front of everyone?’ His eye were drawn to the Goblin Axe, the history of the great deeds always were a reminder to a new king. The long corridor for all visitors past the archways. A reminder to the new bearer of the throne that there could be a door added to each to show their great deeds. Or, as the axe whispered to all that held it in their possession, their actions can leave behind stories when they themselves have passed to be collected by one of the family.

‘So what did the dwarves bring?’ Ja’Mar was always interested in symbolism, the idea of a gift being given had to have a meaning. He always wanted to find something that had a meaning to the person he was giving as opposed to the large golden jewel encrusted pieces that people might choose to give. The small objects often had pride of place, jewels were to be hidden away if possible.

The idea of these dwarves giving a gift to a new king was rare, his father was given a chest of items, an axe made by their blacksmiths, but it was designed for a strong warrior meaning his father could never weald it. His childhood disease stopped him from being able to use both arms properly. To those that live by what they produce, it was a mark of dishonour that took many years to repair as they had made the gift, finely balanced to excellent detail, but the choice of metal meant it was wrong.

When Tymorth was born, they attempted to bring a small gift, a toy that their young would play with, to make them grow up to be strong warriors. Not many knew, but he still had it in his most prized possessions, but never dared ask anyone how he was meant to play with it. It would be ignorant to ask his father as he should know, and to ask anyone else would reflect on his father failing to teach him.

‘So here we have the most unknown community around, giving you a light axe, I guess they didn’t want to repeat the last time.’ His eyes spoke with fondness of the past King, a beloved leader to his people and a personal mentor to Ja’Mar. ‘Interesting, they have given a comb, I guess this is to welcome you to manhood when you decide to grow a beard of quality. Dwarves like a good beard, tells a story by how you plate and decorate it.’

He passed the comb over to Tymorth. The weight was light but strong to sort out what must be messy beards for them. They always seemed to glisten in the light from the torch light. The oils they used must resilient to heat or that would cause a problem in itself.

‘What else have they given me then?’

Ja’Mar had already laid out the items to review and record. Writing was a skill not all got to learn, but one that he liked to use whenever it was possible to. ‘Let me see. We have the comb, the axe, a series of 5 golden coins with some markings on each. A map of our border with them on hide. I guess this is a reminder that they honour the treaty. Looks to be the same. Might be worth having someone check it for fine details.’

Tymorth was listening but the way comb was shaped. It fit into his hand as if it was made for him. There were numerous finger points for when it motioned the combing of a future beard, if he were to grow one. “Say what you will about the Border Dwarven Kingdom, but they mighth produce the best beard combs in the Kingdom.”

“You know they use the bones from their enemies to show how they have conquered them, meaning our grandparents from the Border Wars?”

“Well that ruined that gift from the King.”

Carefully, the comb was placed down next to him as he pushed it over the Ja’Mar to add to the pile for sorting and storing. Each gift would have to be responded to properly to make sure no slight was given to those who have joined in the celebration of a new King.

The returning of a bone from someone who was killed in combat, the Dwarfs had been said to have different traditions, this was one that might need to be explored further.

My daily exercise to practice editing

So I have a daily thing I do, it brings me joy, normally, and it doesn’t often take me very long to do it. I wake up each morning ready and willing. So I turn over look for the email without fail. I open it and straight away my brain is woken up considering ideas. I have found I either come up with something quite quickly, or it seems to take until the end of the day for it to form. There are many different examples out there, but I simply follow the daily inspiration from @vss365official on twitter along with getting the email.

As I said, there are different feeds on twitter, and elsewhere, but I have started with this one, and I feel anymore will just take me down a path where I won’t get out of and be lost in a thick forest not sure where I started from with every 7th word a hashtag. Which will probably stop being fun and more of a brain teaser but on an epic, and futile, proportion. But why do I enjoy it?

Well, the first reason is that it is a great way to be creative. Not being in one story that seems to be twirling around in my head and on the digital page when I get time to write. I have realised I have started to create a character called Todd. There have been other names I have used, but Todd just seems to have been the one that I seem to stick too. There was the voice called Steve once, but he doesn’t seem to come along very often. There is no consistency, yet, for the character. I can see I will try and stretch myself to create something for a future character, probably called Todd, using the daily word to develop a story. As of yet, not done so.

The second reason is, when you have gone through the enjoyment, or anguish, of trying to create your story with the limited letters available on the platform of twitter, the enjoyment from reading what others have created enters a whole new level.

The third reason, and this is why I highly recommend it for anyone who is writing at any level, it has been amazing for editing. If I were still teaching I would be sharing this with my class each morning to have them send in their short pieces by the end of the day for a daily prize. Having a clear defined character limit on what you can write, with a dialogue, poem or other forms in mind, requires you to cut that little darlings, to consider each space that you are using. Quotation marks are great, but for each line that’s 2 spaces, are they really needed today? Do you need to write ‘Todd said’? I have altered so many phrases, lines and each word that I have put in, so when I look through what I wrote months ago, compared to now, I can see how I have changed what I write the more I do it. When I am editing my own pieces of work, there is often no real limit on what I write, but I am editing them not only better, but quicker. The more your practice, there better you will hopefully become.

I am in no way trying to even suggest I am the best out there, I just enjoy the fun. I am always amazed when someone comes across one of mine, likes it, comments or even retweets it. There seem to be many people out there who go through them more than me and explores what have been made, their selections are fun to scroll through if you are busy. Having a different host for half a month also allows there to be more variety of words which then, gives me, and you, more variety in what we can come up with.

When you start looking through the word of the day, following the hashtag that has kicked off as more people join in, there are those that create amazing poetry, visualise what the word could mean through emotion, some who can just seemingly create jokes or puns with what appear to be no effort at all (mainly because they do it each day without fail).

So if you are new to writing, or just want something a bit more than wordle to get your brain going on the journey in the morning/afternoon. Find @vss365official on twitter and explore what people have made. There are other examples out there for daily inspiration. As a creature of habit, I have found this one, but my main enjoyment is as I have said, reading through what others have made, practicing my own ideas out, and then being able to practice, daily, my own editing skills of making sure everyone letter counts.

But as always, whatever your inspiration, right now my dog sitting in the grass that we have let grow a bit longer in a our little garden, he is rolling around in the sun with a very general carefree life, or maybe you are seeing a person sitting in a café drinking coffee that is a bit too hot. Perhaps the wonder of a goblin behind a tree waiting to see you walk past so they can get on with escaping from somewhere. Either way, Just Write. Then see what you have written and the editing can begin.

The Wolf Moon

So this is part of a larger project about the moon. Not sure if I will get all (currently planning 14!) stories completed. But this is a first draft of the first one.

Hope you enjoy 🙂

—//—

The crisp crackle of snow underfoot, the soft breeze through leaves that refused to fall during the dark months, each whisper from the branches tells the wanderer one thing. He is lost. Slowly the furs around him are pulled tighter, he has led the hunt for many years, he has yet to fail to bring back food for those waiting for it. There has always been something exploring the snow.

It is said a good hunter can smell the scent of blood in the air, to become part of the surroundings aides the hunter feel where nature has moved. The old stories told over camp fires to the young make the stoic hunters sound mythical, but once you are out there, your mind focuses on the cold, the trees, the trail. Searching for something to help you bring back another meal. You will, eventually, realise the truth.

In the snow, the hunter sees the faint traces of a track. The snows falls steadily so this can’t be old. All his senses tell him he is close. Slowly the bow is loaded, slowly he moves, slowly to try dampen down each crackle of the snow so nothing can hear him. The more he moves, the deeper the tracks become. It is not long until he finds what has making the trail. Low. Just as he was taught many cycles ago by his father. The bow is pulled.

Release.

The arrow flies through the air and finds its target. It wasn’t where he aimed for, but sometimes you get lucky when you miss and hit something better. The trail is now the red line as the animal tries to flee. Even at his age, the hunter can keep up, the chase is all important, not keeping quiet. The snow breaks as each foot pounds the soft powder and quickly goes from ankle deep to near his knee. In a clearing the animal lies, its final breath hangs in the air as it goes from its warm lungs to the cold surround it.

The hunter lays his hand on the beast, a life should never slip away without a thought. Especially if it is given up for others to continue their own.

A small knife is brought out from inside the layers of warmth, the edge caught in the moon light. The first cut on the rope to prepare the beast to transport focuses the hunter. The stories of battle, hunt and crafts come from his youth to now in every nook still visible on the blade.

With his focus on cutting and preparing the beast to help it be carried home by the group when they arrive, it is not until a shadow appears with the crackle of snow heard in front of him, not behind like he would expect.

He looks up and instantly sees what he had forgotten to be weary of. Age can hone the skills, but can also let them slip away. The wolf is grey with scars on his side. Like his own its face has seen many winters, and what was once two glowing yellow eyes, is now one dulled with age. But the teeth are still ready to eat the next meal.

Slowly the hunter reaches for his bow which is just out of reach and needs to look away to get to it. Breaking eye contact means a charge, but the wolf looks like a charge will not be as quick as it once was. They look at each other, they both realise that they are not as quick as they were, a fight will mean they both will not see the winter through.

As the wind pushes past the hunter the wolf begins to crouch, a smile on his face tells he knows they have arrived. Crouching slowly from the tree line are 3 hunters, younger, speedier, eager. Without breaking eye contact the hunter raises his hand backwards. The 3 new arrivals pause. Looking for instruction for their next move. One wolf, 4 hunters, the odds were good.

Slowly, shadows appear from behind the wolf, the pack arrives. But stops shortly after they have been seen. The glimmer of a tail moves and the new arrivals, young and hungry, pause.

The hunters hand begins to move back to his side lays a hand next to the beast on the ground. By hunting rights the beast is theirs. But hunting rights are not what is in question, survival trumps the honour of ownership, the strongest claim.

Slowly he presses with his knife. Looking at the lead wolf in his one good eye. The flow of movement for his hands, a practiced piece of artwork he has shown the young many times over. The care needed to now slit parts of the beast to keep the meat fresh and ready to be eaten. To not spill that which would foul the rest.

The only sound that can be heard is the knife slicing through. Slowly, the beast is split, then tied. A hand motions for one to come forward, a wrapped finger motions for the hunter to move slowly.

The young hunter comes and does what the motions tell him. He picks up and begins to drag half of the beast back towards his fellow hunters. With the beginning of removal of the beast two wolves start to move. The first to react is the lead wolf. He growls. But not at the hunter, at his own. A tail flies in the air with snow kicked in each direction. But the eye stays locked.

Cautiously, the hunters collectively carry the half of the animal back behind the tree line. A whistle can be heard to motion to the old hunter they are clear and the crackling of snow tells him they are moving away. He rises, his form caught in the full moon. A scar on his own face, a hand wrapped up too tightly to have all the fingers. Slowly, backwards, a slight limp on one side from the passage of time on his frame. As the moon light fills the opening again and the hunter joins the tree line. The old wolf paws the ground, to begin sharing the meal with the pack that moves out of the trees.

The wolf pack will feast on the food to survive another day. As both aged hunters know, the truth for hunting in scarce times, it knowing when to hunt, when to lose, when to attack.