I always thought that, no matter how stressful the situation, I would be able to push through it. Yet here in this critical moment I stand frozen unable to set one foot forward or backward. I watch the fight unfold as someone unrelated to its outcome.

To be fair, this entire venture has been one disaster after another. Our kamikaze leader takes any fight he can find in this monster-infested forest, often barely escaping with his life thanks to timely interference from me. Our archer bounces from tree to tree waging a personal war on the low-level nuisances. Oh, I'm not complaining. I just thought teams of adventurers deep in dangerous territory would fight, you know, as a team?

The other members group together nicely, though I suspect more out of a fear of death than any sense of strategy. I have given up on discovering why they fight one moment then flee the next. It seems to be based on which way the wind blows. Still, I wish our leader would learn something from them about self preservation.

I want to be the adventurer who asks, "How can I improve" instead of "Who can I blame." Yet as the situation continues to spiral it becomes increasingly difficult to discern my own mistakes from our award-winning lack of synergy.

Now the golden moment. At long last, our archer has set their sights on the same prey as the group. If we beat this monster, we can win. Our leader choses the perfect moment to rush in.

And I freeze. I watch as everyone fights. So many of our engages I've tried my best only to be met with unsatisfactory results. Now, when all that effort might pay off, I can't put my life on the line for this team anymore. Whatever the outcome, it has nothing to do with me.

They say that if you stand under the lone apple tree in the valley a stranger will come and speak with you. I personally am of the semi-popular opinion that this is just an easy way for shy guys to meet pretty girls. I suppose I cannot hold to that any longer, as this torrential rain has me standing under the self-same tree.

Now that I've seen me next to the apples I shall never redeem myself. At least this rain is sure to deter any young man from tripping over themselves to speak with me.

"It's really coming down, isn't it?"

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. How had I not noticed him walk up? Cursed rain. At least a simple agreement is quite enough to politely respond to this original one-liner. "Yes it is."

"Are you hungry? The apples here are quite good."

I bristle inwardly, then calm myself. However much an apple in woman's hand is frowned upon in local religious circles, this gentleman cannot have known, not with his quite handsome foreign clothing. Nor shall I enlighten him; I have no desire to be placed in company with those dried-up old prunes whose only remaining joy is the misery of others.

In fact, there is no real reason beyond appearance' sake that apples ought not be eaten by fair females. In this rain, no one but he and I shall be able to see. There is God, of course, but I do believe He has bigger matters to worry over than the eating of apples.

"Thank you, sir." I accept the red fruit graciously offered and take the biggest bite I can prudently muster out of the darkest, reddest portion. I have never had an apple, being the daughter of a deacon, and I am pleasantly surprised by the flavor. Nothing this sweet and good can possibly be entirely evil. All that is good came from God, after all, if His testimony is to be believed.

I take my first real look at the handsome stranger, who himself is also devouring an apple. There is something decidedly strange about him, though this may quite possibly be my religious zealotry speaking. But no, do not soon dismiss a maiden raised from childhood on the old stories. I remember quite well that obscure reference, which states "Do you not know? The way to tell the creature from the man is to look into his eyes. For in the eye dwells all light and darkness."

I feel I have little to lose in this relentless torrent, so I risk politeness to peer right into his gaze. "You, sir, are a serpent. Now that I think of it, is it insulting to call a creature 'sir'?"

"Not at all," the serpent-stranger replies with an amused smile. "It is a term showing respect for an existence not your own."

"Please blame my boldness on the rain, but how am I to know you are not the serpent?"

"Simplicity itself. I have told no lies."

I ponder this a moment. One of the first things one learns being the daughter of a deacon is to ponder every statement carefully. He did get me to eat an apple, but he only said it was "quite good", which I would be untruthful to deny. "True enough, sir. I conceed that you are a serpent which tells no lies."

We converse for a while, but at long last the rain lets up and I must bid him farewell. Perhaps one day, when I am old and grey, I shall tell my grandchildren the day's events, but until then the torrent under the apple tree shall remain my secret personal adventure.

Many books, treatises, indexes, poems, and tomes have been compiled concerning magic in its various forms. Those common and uncommon impart knowledge with the aim of increasing the understanding of the reader, but they have no power of their own.

The tomes of the ancients, however, by a method long lost, imparted their will into the written word in addition to their knowledge. If the written words are recited aloud while the tome is open, the spell recorded comes alive and executes the will of the writer. In this way even those inexperienced in magic can summon a whirlwind or a torrent.

There are some drawbacks to tome-magic. Some practice is required, though not nearly the amount needed when relying on one’s own effort. The writer included such things as control and accuracy into their written spell, so the reciter need only point to their target and hope he can mouth the words quickly enough. The reciter does need to supply the energy needed for the spell; this is where the practice comes in.

It can happen, that if a reciter attempts a spell but is unable to supply the energy necessary, the spell exacts the energy lacking from the reciter’s life. This most often results in death. At best, the reciter is unable to ever again use magic and is bound for an early grave.

The spell was written according to the writer’s ability, and the body knows what it can handle. When recited by another, the body’s natural defenses cannot go into effect, so the reciter must judge his own ability. So yes, practice is vital even though tome-magic is easy to master.

Many see tome-magic as a quick route to power, and so it is, but so often the easy path is the destruction of those who choose it. So it is with tome-magic. In small amounts, mixed with spells of one’s own, it does no harm, but those who rely exclusively on the writings of others for their power die young.

The constant summoning of energy that is devoted solely to the will of another withers the soul through the lack of use of one’s own will. When the soul withers, the body eventually follows. It is not uncommon for users of tome-magic to die before age fifty.

Though the knowledge of how to make magic tomes is long forgotten, men do preserve spells in other ways. Namely by spell crystals and enchanted items. Because the nature of these items differs from the tomes, the possibility of a deadly effect on the user is greatly lessened. However, they can still distract new mages.

#magic #fantasy #wizards

It is quite impossible to enchant metal. So naturally metalsmiths through the ages have found exactly 3 ways around the fact.

The ancients found that, while metal will not bond with magic, a tiny amount remains after a spell has passed through. So their mighty men would use the same bronze sword given them at their coming of age in all their battles. After a few short centuries of their long lifespan, enough magic would have collected in the bronze blade for it to manifest a personality of its own.

Not all peoples could afford to be as patient as the ancients. The Pathruz were the first to perfect the art of condensing magic into crystal. They would then embed these crystals into rings and necklaces, daggers and armor, but mostly into swords of iron. These enchanted blades were not only as beautiful as their ceremonial kindred but also sharp and strong for battle.

Even so men still sought to make true enchanted swords, the perfect union of magic and metal. In Greyworld men practiced crafting metal entirely from magic alone. In stutters and starts they progressed, though they never reached their goal. The magic-made metal would fall apart as soon as they withdrew their hand. But the knowledge gained was not entirely without worth.

Those with skill learned to form swords from their magic, with which they could pierce and slash and cast spells in combat. Battle spells which used to be the domain of advanced troops were now cast by the common soldier. The old era faded and a new age was born.

And what of true enchanted metal? It remains ever elusive in the domain of the impossible. For now.

#fantasy #magic #swords

"So, how are you feeling?"

Her piercing eyes wait patiently for me to answer. She knows I'm not too good at answering this particular question, which is why she asked it. With eyes like those she surely knows the answer. Honestly, I wish she'd just tell me instead of asking. But she won't and worse still she'll know if I lie.

At least those eyes are patient. "Right now, I'm irritated at you."

Her mouth turns upward in amusement. Her smile always relaxes me. There's safety in that smile.

"Pressure," I answer. "I'm tired of pressure. I wish it would leave me alone so I can actually accomplish something with pride."

She nods thoughtfully. "Have you been eating?"

How could that possibly be related? My eating habits, or lack of, have nothing to do with feeling pressured. I roll my eyes. "Not this again. Can we deal with life issues first? Eating is like laundry, only it comes more frequently."

I do know how strange my statement sounds. Points to her for not laughing. She looks at me seriously with those piercing eyes. "You can't live until you eat. Eat first, life second. You've expressed before how much better you feel after a good meal."

Begrudgingly I have to agree. I did say that.

"What are you waiting for? Go! Eat something tasty!"

A couple hot dogs later, I thank her. Really, I should consult myself more often. I give good advice.

To know the people of Durashat is to know their tales of dragons. It is a rare day in the land of white stone that one may not look up and see a dragon circling high overhead, watching with curious eyes the lives of men.

The most common dragon tale is the grabbing of maidens engaged to be married. It is apparently so common that most maidens expect it and indeed seem to enjoy the anticipation.

The husband-to-be is the true unfortunate, for he must go about getting back his intended bride. His first trial is finding the dragon. Discovering the location of its den involves asking the inhabitants of the sky, either the Hushaf of Rim Nasur or a gryphn. Unless the young husband-to-be is very lucky, he is stuck asking a gryphn.

The gryphn take this duty both very seriously and with a high degree of hilarity. They are noble creatures with admirable senses of humor. The young man usually leaves with his question now answered but a whole host more about himself yet unanswered.

With the location of the dragon’s den now known, the young man has to get there. A nearly impossible undertaking, as dragon dens reside in the inaccessible peaks of Rim Nasur, where only wings may find their way. Though goats usually find their way anyway. Of course, the young man could ask the gryphn, but most prefer to learn the ways of the mountain goat.

It is not unknown for the maiden in question to have carried with her a substantial length of rope for just this purpose. Skirts of rope worn between layers of clothing are a popular item among brides-to-be.

At this point it should be mentioned that the young husband-to-be has never seen a dragon in any degree of closeness. Neither gryphn nor mountain may come between him and his intended, but a dragon is another matter altogether.

I saw the land of the forsaken, where once all was green but now is brown and barren. For lack of water, even the souls of the people were dried up. They took up arms to feed their families. They gathered in bands and raided the neighboring country. By bloodshed they claimed what they lacked.

With rejoicing the forsaken returned to their land, laden with spoil. Songs of gladness returned to the streets, feasting to the halls, and dancing to the nights. Every harvest they returned to their neighbor to claim the plenty that was not theirs. They carried away what their land lacked.

Their oppressed neighbors sat barren in a plentiful land. The oppressed fled to the hills, their songs of dancing turned to wails of mourning. These cried out to their Lord to deliver them. Their Lord was not silent.

What then, when the Lord of the oppressed comes in power? Will he show mercy to the forsaken for their famine? Or will he remember the grief they have caused his people and shatter them as a clay pot.

Desperation is when you hit the bottom of your darkest pit with the heavy force of a falling star. Pain has yet to catch up, so it's just you, the bottom, and nothing. Which you soon shall be.

A weakly desperate desire to live beats faintly. It tastes of salty blood on the tongue. Not enough to be unpleasant, but 'give up' unloads the overwhelming salty flavor to shock into action.

Salty turns to bitter pain regained and continues as you reach for the sweet relief of life made all the sweeter by desperate bitter.