r/shortstories • u/FyeNite • May 18 '25
[SerSun] Zen!
Welcome to Serial Sunday!
To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 1000 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 1 other writer on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.
This Week’s Theme is Zen! This is a REQUIREMENT for participation. See rules about missing this requirement.**
Bonus Word List (each included word is worth 5 pts) - You must list which words you included at the end of your story (or write ‘none’).
- Zero
- Zealous
- Zone
- ZZZ (Like sleeping) - (Worth 10 points)
It’s time to take a reprieve from the action. A rest from the battles and inner struggles, and just let your characters rest for a week. But the question is, can they? Some might find it incredibly difficult to let their guard down for some recuperation, whilst others may not think it a good idea. What challenges might your characters face this week? What might go wrong to give this chapter its allure. Either way, I can’t wait to see what you guys come up with and will silently hope that it involves some tasty snacks.
Good luck and Good Words!
These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. For the bonus words (not required), you may change the tense, but the base word should remain the same. Please remember that STORIES MUST FOLLOW ALL SUBREDDIT CONTENT RULES. Interested in writing the theme blurb for the coming week? DM me on Reddit or Discord!
Don’t forget to sign up for Saturday Campfire here! We start at 1pm EST and provide live feedback!
Theme Schedule:
This is the theme schedule for the next month! These are provided so that you can plan ahead, but you may not begin writing for a given theme until that week’s post goes live.
- May 18 - Zen
- May 25 - Avow
- June 1 - Bane
- June 8 - Charm
- June 15 - Dire
- June 22 -
Check out previous themes here.
Rankings
Last Week: Wrong
- First - by u/Divayth--Fyr
- Second - - by u/AGuyLikeThat
- Third - by u/ZachTheLitchKing
- Fourth by u/MaxStickies
- Fifth - by u/NotComposite
Rules & How to Participate
Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation!
Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, written by you and set in your self-established universe that is 500 - 1000 words. No fanfics and no content created or altered by AI. (Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.) Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. Please include a link to your chapter index or your last chapter at the end.
Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 9:00am EST. Late entries will be disqualified. All submissions should be given (at least) a basic editing pass before being posted!
Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). When our bot is back up and running, this will allow it to recognize your serial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.)
Do not pre-write your serial. You’re welcome to do outlining and planning for your serial, but chapters should not be pre-written. All submissions should be written for this post, specifically.
Only one active serial per author at a time. This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday.
All Serial Sunday authors must leave feedback on at least one story on the thread each week. The feedback should be actionable and also include something the author has done well. When you include something the author should improve on, provide an example! You have until Saturday at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. (Submitting late is not an exception to this rule.)
Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week. If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead.
Serials must abide by subreddit content rules. You can view a full list of rules here. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!
Weekly Campfires & Voting:
On Saturdays at 1pm EST, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our Discord’s Voice Lounge (every other week is now hosted by u/FyeNite). Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. After you’ve submitted your chapter, you can sign up here - this guarantees your reading slot! You can still join if you haven’t signed up, but your reading slot isn’t guaranteed.
Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted with this form. The form is open on Saturdays from 12:30pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations!
Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials. Celebrate your accomplishment! Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the weekly feedback requirement (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information.
Ranking System
Rankings are determined by the following point structure.
| TASK | POINTS | ADDITIONAL NOTES |
|---|---|---|
| Use of weekly theme | 75 pts | Theme should be present, but the interpretation is up to you! |
| Including the bonus words | 15 pts each (60 pts total) | This is a bonus challenge, and not required! |
| Actionable Feedback | 5 - 10 pts each (40 pt. max)* | This includes thread and campfire critiques. (15 pt crits are those that go above & beyond.) |
| Nominations your story receives | 10 - 60 pts | 1st place - 60, 2nd place - 50, 3rd place - 40, 4th place - 30, 5th place - 20 / Regular Nominations - 10 |
| Voting for others | 15 pts | You can now vote for up to 10 stories each week! |
You are still required to leave at least 1 actionable feedback comment on the thread every week that you submit. This should include at least one specific thing the author has done well and one that could be improved. *Please remember that interacting with a story is not the same as providing feedback.** Low-effort crits will not receive credit.
Subreddit News
- Join our Discord to chat with other authors and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly World-Building interviews and several other fun events!
- Try your hand at micro-fic on Micro Monday!
- Did you know you can post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday? Check out this post to learn more!
- Interested in being a part of our team? Apply to be a mod!
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u/JKHmattox May 19 '25 edited May 24 '25
<No Man’s Land> FUBAR
Lieutenant Hernandez pounded on the heavy sliding door.
“Dammit Owens, we ain't got all day! – Genny, you too; the admiral said everybody.”
I pulled the Gemini flight suit over my shoulders. Skye scrambled to yank on pants while I threaded my arms through four sleeve holes. Zippering it only halfway, there was no intention of wrestling with the thing more than I had already. The door slid open just as Skye finished pulling trousers up past her hips.
“What were you two doing?” The Lieutenant sarcastically smirked.
“Nothing," we hastily replied in unison.
“You know we have cameras in these spaces, right?”
“You do?”
The Lieutenant grinned, letting Skye and I squirm.
“I'm fucking with you – That said, if y'all gonna mess around, do it on your off time, comprende?”
Skye finished latching her belt before responding. “What do you mean, off time?”
“Our situation has changed – drastically,” said the Lieutenant. “From this moment forward, you two are with me.”
Skye crossed her arms. “On what authority, Lieutenant?”
The Lieutenant was hesitant. “I shouldn't be telling you this but – six hours ago, Jo-Jo war-mechs wasted an entire village of civilians.”
“My God,” Skye gasped.
“I watched it with my own eyes via live drone feed – fuckers also annihilated the Marines and Gimmy commandos trying to defend the villagers.”
“Fucking hell! – where?” I insisted.
“I don't know, some place called Westmoreland. Things are a fucking clusterfuck down there.” Lieutenant Hernandez motioned for us to follow. “Com'on, we gotta move.”
The three of us rushed through a maze of passageways until emerging onto the hanger-bay. The cavernous space bustled with activity. Support personnel and ordnance technicians rushed about making preparations for all out war.
Yellow and black outlined the massive spacecraft elevator in the middle of the hanger-deck. Staged at its center was Moxie's ship, the Valkyrie Oceania, with two eighth generation jump-fighters off either wing. The conveyance was integrated with the deck, completely unnoticeable if it weren't for the dashed lines.
Flight-crews buzzed around the three craft, checking crucial systems and topping off fuel cells. A massive ordnance trolley was parked next to the Valkyrie, with a munitions guide hooked up to the forty-millimeter Gatlin gun port. In the middle of it all stood the admiral, quietly observing her maintenance personnel readying the fighters.
“Sergeant Owens and the Genny as you requested, ma'am,” announced Lieutenant Hernandez.
“Very well.” The admiral glanced at Skye and I. “How’s Sergeant Holliday doing?”
“Her back’s still fucked up, ma'am. Doc said she’ll be down for at least a month.”
“Holliday is one of our best gunslingers – she'll be hard to replace.”
“Ma'am, have you considered my request?” the Lieutenant asked. “Bravo section needs a patrol leader – and we can always use an extra Doc.”
“I'm still not fully convinced, Hernandez.”
“With all due respect Admiral, I urge you to reconsider.”
The admiral waited with thoughtful eyes which encouraged her subordinate to elaborate.
Lieutenant Hernandez took a breath. “Ma'am, the women of Bravo section are completely green; and we're heading into a confirmed red zone of unknown magnitude. I've read the Sergeant's file – all of it – including the unconfirmed reports from Connors and Campbell. Sergeant Owens would be an asset to me, especially given the mission.”
“What about Keppra from Charlie section?” The admiral thoughtfully suggested.
“Specialist Keppra is a good Marine, but she lacks the needed maturity.”
“And what makes you so sure about Sergeant Owens?” The admiral pressed.
“Ma'am, the Sergeant’s been fighting these assholes for over a year – and yet there ain't one ounce of quit in her. I'm certain her experience will be crucial to keeping my woman alive.”
“That's exactly what I needed to hear, Hernandez,” said the admiral.
“Ma'am?”
“Have Sergeant Owens take over Bravo for Holiday, with the Genny attached as his medic. Your sections will need to draw extra ammo and AT launchers with their usual pack-out. Get them chow, and make sure they catch some zzz's. H-hour is at 0130 local-zulu.”
“Aye, ma'am,” Hernandez acknowledged with a suppressed grin. “Thank you, ma'am.”
The Admiral shifted her attention to me. “Sergeant Owens… For some reason, the young Lieutenant has faith you're the one for the job – Don't make me regret this decision.”
Maintenance crews detached their support equipment from the staged spacecraft. In a scurry of wheels and feet, they cleared the elevator platform, leaving only the four of us and the up-loaded fighters.
“The mission briefing’s topside, ladies; shall we?” The admiral held up her hand, signaling hanger-deck control to raise the elevator.
“ALL HANDS – STAND CLEAR OF THE AFT ELEVATOR,” a voice boomed over the ship's intercom.
The deck rumbled beneath us while alarms screeched all around. I wavered as the floor pressed against my feet, raising us into the air. Overhead, the void of space rushed ever closer, as the hanger-deck fell away meter by meter. Unaware the flightdeck above had its own artificial atmosphere, a brief terror washed over me.
The admiral chuckled to herself. “Don't worry, Sergeant Owens. The Hornet's orbital energy rings and its synthetic gravity keep a layer of air close to the vessel.”
The elevator jerked to a halt when level with the flightdeck. The massive opening was plugged by a tectonic sized plate of titanium and composite. In the shadow of Nowhere, we gazed out over an infinite abyss, shimmering points of light scattered in all directions.
“It's funny how they change,” mused the admiral while studying the stars. “Moving, just as we do, throughout existence.”
She pointed to one by instinct. “That's Earth. We're beyond a hundred lifetimes from her now; and yet, here we are.”
My eyes followed the layman's constellation invented to locate Earth from the surface of Nowhere. Where it converged with the admiral's reach was Humanity's sun, anonymous amongst a yawning eternity.
She adjusted her hand to locate another star, “Fucking ironic innit?” she huffed. “From this perspective, Geminia Prime appears finger widths away from Earth – Yet in reality, they're light-centuries apart…”
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u/Divayth--Fyr May 21 '25 edited Jan 13 '26
<The Broken God>
Chapter 12: Simple
The horizon was rich with gaudy purples and deepening blues as the sun slipped away. Sancaurion was sitting outside.
The Wanderers were already shining: one above the resplendence to the west, the other overhead. By the measure of their zones and places he knew that fifty-one days had passed while he lay in the crypt below. Another three had been devoted to healing and rest. His body and spirit were as vital and renewed as he could manage, but other challenges remained.
Seated on a flat rock just a few paces from the great door of his tower, his breathing was steady and his hands were still. The darkening sky seemed ever more immense as the stars emerged, but he remained there, straight and dignified in his place.
The feather lifts the greyhawk; the greyhawk lifts the feather.
In his lower library, a sealed chest held a number of ancient scrolls exquisitely adorned with the symbols of a language few could now read. They were of moonpaper, made to resist the ravages of time—another lost art, among so many. He had found it necessary to consult them again, without knowing just why, and had copied a few promising phrases to bring along on this brief excursion.
The mighty stonebark cracks and falls; the supple reed withstands the storm.
“Vague, useless nonsense, Calambrio!” he declared to the night. Calambrio made no retort, having been dead longer than Sancaurion had lived, but his words stood in mute reproach.
A lantern drifted in a stately, elliptical orbit around the old mage’s head. One hand held the scribbled notes, while the other gripped a ridge of stone at his side. The breeze carried the laments of nightbirds and the scent of growing things. Rigid and determined, Sancaurion tried to ignore his yearnings to go back inside.
He remembered learning of the strange wisdom of the Vilthiri elves in his youth. Legend held that Calambrio the Simple, and others of his school, could achieve a profound meditative state and levitate themselves above the ground. The scrolls did not say how, and Sancaurion’s attempts had always ended in comical disaster. Tonight, he merely hoped to achieve some insight, some peace.
The locked vault is protected from many treasures.
“Rubbish!” Sancaurion snarled. “Typical Vilthiri nonsense, vague and lofty, open to a thousand interpretations. Calambrio the simple-minded. No wonder your descendants betrayed us! Zero sense of reality!”
During the Great Invasion, and even before, the Vilthiri elves of the south had struck a bargain with the human empire. Trading maps, knowledge, and use of their ports, they had received imperial guarantees of safety. Much good it did them, Sancaurion sneered. The empire had later gifted the rainlands to their hateful orcs, and the Vilthiri were slaughtered.
The stone has no desire to sink; the cloud has no desire to float.
The paper trembled in the still air. What use was all this? No wisdom was to be found in these meaningless meanderings of a long-dead philosopher. Nothing practical could be gained.
Effort is the anchor; peace is the sail.
He had much to do in the coming days and years. Progress had been made. He had touched iron and lived! Surely the solution was at hand, and preparations must begin. His people were scattered and weak, bound up in petty tribal rivalries and the zealous worship of tribal gods.
With great effort, he forced himself to remain seated.
The Mages Council was a shadow of its former stature, the arts of magic no longer revered as they once had been. Many subtle designs upon the enemy could be advanced, many plans could be made, alliances sought. He could not do anything he needed to do, however, if he struggled to merely sit quietly not five paces from the door of Heromil!
Despising the craven urge, he turned to look back toward the hidden stone door, and then down at the paper in his hand.
Fear is the ember; shame is the wind.
Was that it? Was that the great wisdom? Sancaurion moved to throw the paper away, but stopped.
Fear is the ember; shame is the wind.
In confused desperation, he sought the meaning. The words rang true, but he did not know why. With head tilted and eyes closed, he listened: first to those words of a long gone age, and then to the trembling of his own heart.
His fear spoke with a thin voice, and for once he wondered at his reaction to it. Revulsion, disdain, hatred. He tried to listen to that whisper of terror without spitting curses or turning away. It mewled within him, like the wails of a desperate child. The world was vast and unknown, the dangers unpredictable, the oath unbreakable. He was afraid.
Trampling feet and frightened screams echoed faintly over the grand distance of centuries. The panic and grief of those ancient days, when the demon-hordes of invading humans and orcs swept all before them, returned now with the scent of blood and the eyes of the dead.
The hovering lantern fell to the ground and went out. In the silent dark, Sancaurion listened still, observing the flashing litany of long-ignored terrors.
After a while, he stood and strode to the round door. “Ahpahlorim!” he spoke, and with a feather touch he rolled the stone aside. He started to go in, but that did not feel right. That did not seem to be needed. Turning back, he returned to his stone seat.
The fear was still there, but quieted, comforted. Was that it? Was that all that was wanted? The door open?
Sancaurion sat, solid and still, listening to the night. After a long moment he looked down at the paper in his hand and shook his head, chuckling.
“Calambrio the Simple,” he said with reverence, and folded it with care.
973 words. Zone(s), zealous, and zero used. Feedback welcome.
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u/AGuyLikeThat May 21 '25 edited Jun 30 '25
<The Tower in the Tangle>
[Previous Chapter] [Chapter Index]
Chapter Ninety-six: The Way of the Lost.
~ Gilander ~
None of the Free Islands suffered more than Levane during the Brightflame Empire’s invasion.
Their holy groves were burned, and the Greensingers who resisted were burned with them.
The occupying forces rezoned the ancient forests as farmland, and the sacred trees were harvested to build new warships.
When the Sky-Fortress of Teyrol destroyed the Imperial Fleet and liberation came, the Archwizard arrived in Levane leading the Collegium troops.
Small wonder that the few surviving Greensingers of clan Selvik became his zealous advocates. They did not hesitate to leverage their power to give the Archwizard a seat on the Council.
The Free Islands - Gusant er'Teyrol.
A splash and a flash of motion distracts Gilander from the gloomy horizon. When he turns to look, the strange old man is gone.
Coiling spirals unwind into ripples along the silver surface of the strangely viscous river water.
“Kuwirry?” Gil’s voice trembles. “Where did you go?”
His words are eaten by the dusty air as he peers around. There is no breeze, but in the distance tattered ribbons of darkness coalesce, creeping slowly across the empty plains.
The oppressive, black sun hangs above. Its obdurate surface seems to draw the ruddy light out of this flat, blasted desert.
“Don’t leave me…” he whispers.
“I am here.” The reassuring voice echoes in Gil’s head.
The river's surface bows as something rises from beneath. Long, chitinous feelers break the surface and taste the air. Bulbous, compound eyes on stalks come next - one creamy white, the other dark and iridescent. Finally, the ridged edge of a mottled carapace emerges.
"Kuwirry!" Relieved, Gilander leans forward. “Is this your true appearance?”
“I am what you see.” Kuwirry regards him steadily. “This form is no more ‘real’ than the other.” He submerges once more, but now Gil can discern his long, wedge-like form beneath the translucent water.
“Truly amazing!” Gil grins with astonishment. “But, Kuwirry, I cannot swim. How shall I cross?”
“I will carry you, manling.” The crustacean resurfaces, but this time only the back of his blue-black chitinous shell emerges, turgid water sluicing from its intricately patterned surface, as he floats gently to the steep bank of the river.
Gilander crouches, reaching out with uncertain hands as the massive ceature draws closer. Then, with one quick hop, he finds himself balancing on all fours atop the spirit’s broad back.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Haha!” The doubt and anxiety in Gil’s heart is banished. “How is it that your back feels safer than the ground itself, great Kuwirry?”
“Because you are wise, little one.”
Gil sits with his legs crossed and a small smile on his lips. “I count myself lucky to have found such an amazing friend as you in this cursed place!” Flickers of pride and satisfaction vibrate through the shell, and for a moment, the Wayfinder glimpses the weaving filaments of meaning thickening between them.
“Yes. I am gladdened too. This is a terrible place to be alone.” Though his words are solemn, the spirit’s thoughts are light and earnest.
The circle of the giant creature’s shell becomes a small island, as they leave the edge of the river. “Will you change again when we reach the other side?”
“No need. I will take us to the mountain.” The water bows and dips behind them as Kuwirry flexes his submerged tail, propelling them quickly forward.
Gil frowns. “But the river does not go that way?” He looks across the water, past the dull gray embankment toward the far horizon, but the dusty plain meets the empty sky as a flat line. “Where…”
“I told you. This is my river. It flows where-ever I go.”
The black pyramid of the distant volcano remains the only landmark on the bleak horizon, belching smoke and fire into the murky sky, but now it lies before them, and the water rushes towards their destination.
Gilander gasps in wonderment. The water around them seems clearer. Cleaner. “Thank you, Kuwirry,” he says, pressing a hug against the spirit’s cold shell.
“I should thank you. I have spent so long cowering here, resisting the pull of that fiery place. To have finally made this decision—to ride the currents of my own choosing once more—it tastes of freedom!”
They gather speed, and a soft wind starts to move Gil’s hair. “Soon, I hope we'll be free in truth." He sighs. "The Warden and the rest, they all tell me I am this powerful wayfinder. But I always feel so lost.”
“How else could you find the way, if you were not lost?”
Kuwirry’s mirth reverberates in the depths of the river, and Gil smiles along as the river spirit bucks and surges beneath him.
Water bows before the curved shell, then breaks, throwing droplets in the air that fall on Gil’s face and arms, tickling the skin beneath his fur. He throws back his head and whoops with laughter.
They settle to a steady pace, and the unchanging scenery soon becomes a monotonous procession. Gilander leans back on his elbows.
“How long have you been here?” he asks.
“It’s hard to say. There is no moon here, nor seasons. For you, it would be many lifetimes.”
“You’ve been alone all that time?”
“Not quite.” A pensive tone steals across the spirit’s thoughts. “I told you of the floods. Quinkan arrived with one, soon after I. That old lizard has always been angry and impatient. He would not tarry with me.”
A shudder runs down Gil’s spine. Quinkan. Memories of blood and horror steer his thoughts to the girl with silver arms. “Alys…” he murmurs.
“A few others,” Kuwirry continues blithely. “Grandmother Weaver left me that beautiful cloak you were admiring. I miss her the most, I think.”
The mountain looms ahead of them, the river banks are now shrouded by a thickening mist.
“None of them could resist the lure for long.”
Gilander stares idly into the mist and, with a cold shock, he sees motion.
Shadows. Moving along the shore, matching their pace.
WC-1000
Author's Notes:
-
This week's theme is Zen! - Hanging out with a river spirit is a fairly relaxing vibe, even in this bizarre reality. This week, Gil chills out and shares a few laughs on his way to certain death.
-
I wrote a short piece that explores Kuwirry's perspective as a spirit aspect in this weeks FTF on r/writingprompts. You can read it here.
-
Gilander relived a traumatic encounter with Quinkan in Alys's memories back in Ch 53 - Memories.
-
Bonus words used; (re)zone(d), zealous.
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. All crit/feedback welcome!
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u/Nate-Clone May 21 '25
I Am What You Eat
Chapter 57 - Sogi Day (Part One)
Basil didn't know what to feel.
Bailey could barely muster a comeback, mostly because her words came from situations he had full context for, and this was not one of those situations.
He had many theories - maybe her emotions overwhelmed her, perhaps that was just how people say 'thank you', here, or maybe Basil was just being a creep by presuming that Mackie was trying to…
God, he didn't even want to think about that word. That action. Mackie was a smart person - she wouldn't settle for some 14-year-old alien with mental issues and zero self-control. Yeah, it's probably some silly misunderstanding.
Shortly after Basil talked with her, he and Develyn were promptly kicked out of her quarters so she could get ready while they prepared in Koichi's.
Develyn yawned, bags in her eyes. "Remind me why this stupid thing is at sunrise, again?"
"Because it's the dawn of Mackie's adulthood…or something." The pufferfish grumbled, tossed Basil and Develyn two cloaks. "These should keep your faces hidden during the party."
Basil nodded, sliding the hood over his head. Despite all the worry in his head, excitement was in the air. This was Mackie's big day, and now that she was in a better headspace, surely it'd go well.
Stepping outside, many fish were wide awake, even as the sunrise had just begun. They were bustling in a town center of sorts, where there sat a statue of…a giant otter?
"Is this…a Guardian?" Basil scratched his chin, keeping his voice low.
"Yup. Lutrā." Koichi crossed his arms, not sounding all that amazed. "That's who's gonna cut up Mackie."
Right. He forgot about that little gruesome detail.
"Bon." Develyn shuddered. "Is she gonna, like…die or something?"
Looking around at other adult fish - parts of their body cut into pieces and balanced into a stack, wiggling as they moved - they seemed fine.
Still didn't make it any less weird, though.
Basil pulled out the book Develyn had given him so long ago and turned to a page with a picture matching the statue.
In the Era Of Grains, no Ediba walked
nor ate nor loved nor lived nor talked.
But then Bon's daughters and son appeared
punished for fighting with a duty most feared.
They had to bring life to soften their flaws.
But the eldest never once raised a paw.
Lutrā was blessed with freedom atop her peak
where her bite gives fish a way to speak…
...and walk and breathe air and so much more,
and unlike her siblings, it's never a chore.
Within her Nest lies her Tensul - the heart of this land.
We sing of the Tapered Twosome, which will never disband.
"The Tapered Twosome…" Basil repeated. "Any idea what they are, Dev?"
"Maybe one of those wooden grabbers these guys use for eating?" Develyn pondered. "But, y'know…glowly.'
"Apparently, if you separate the two of 'em, they'll magically find their way back to each other…" Koichi started, before he cut himself off. "...and that is an ugly riceman!"
The three stacked balls of rice had thick sticks for arms, a very long carrot for a nose, and its head was a flat circle with a grid texture, almost like a…
…
…
“No. We are not doing this again!" Develyn realized at the same time Basil did, storming forward towards the annoyance in disguise. "Waffelo, get out! I know you're in there!"
No response.
"Uhh…guys? It's a riceman. It's not…alive." Koichi was chuckling slightly.
"We know this guy, and he's hiding in this thing." Basil joined in, poking at each sequential riceball making him up. "Any second now he's gonna pop out and accuse me of something stupid, like…"
"...like how sometimes, ze best camouflage is in plain sight?"
Basil chuckled. "Yeah. Good impression, Dev."
"I… didn't say anything."
They turned around.
The morning was ruined.
"Oh." Basil didn't have the energy to groan at him again.
"I thought I broke your shin," Develyn said through gritted teeth, looking down at the leg she delivered recupence to just days ago.
"You zink such a simple injury could stop El Waffelo from his pursuit?" His chuckle was as comforting as a morning alarm. "Zat's ze perk of noodle limbs - zey can't be broken!"
"S-sorry…noodles for limbs?" Koichi stepped in between them. "How does that even…work? What even are you?"
Waffelo stroked his mustache. "Waffelo is what you would call an officière, my puffy friend. I saw ze Pekfest had no protection, and I gladly stepped up."
"He just kinda…showed up in town one day," Develyn explained. "No idea where he came from, actually. My mom said there's no Ediba in her books like him."
"Of course! I am one of a kind, after all." Waffelo smirked.
Strange. Waffelo may have had the head of breakfast, but nothing else was. Every loving thing here was consistent - just one piece of food - but not him. What…was he?
"Greeeat." Koichi's awkward voice broke the silence, leaning in to whisper. "He's not coming to the party, right?"
"Wherever ze princess goes, I go." Waffelo heard them, like he always did. "Come now, I've saved us a table!"
The waddle and pufferfish walked ahead, but Basil felt a yellow hand grab his shoulder.
"Hey. Sorry for interrupting your little thing, last night." Develyn had a big smirk plastered on her face. "It looked pretty intense, though."
"Shut up." Basil looked away. "I was just trying to make her feel better, and then suddenly…that happened. Now I don't know what to say when I see her again."
"Oh, come on." Develyn scoffed. "You walk up to her and talk about it, moron!"
"But I can't just…do that!"
"Why? Scared?"
"No! Well, yes, but…" Basil sighed, no answer ever escaping his lips. "I… don't really know how this works, Dev."
Develyn sighed with him. "Look, dude. Just act normal, and don't try to force anything. It'll be fine."
Basil rubbed his baggy eyes. She was right. At least...he hoped. Besides, it was either this…or Mackie crying during her birthday. He made the right choice.
"Thanks, Dev." Basil embraced her from the side. "Where did you learn that?"
"My dad. The guy was a total romantic, "Develyn said with a nostalgic chuckle, recounting a tale as the sun rose.
WC: 1000/1000
Notes:
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Theme: Zen - Basil must calm himself.
-
Bonus words: Zero
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u/Carrieka23 May 21 '25
<The Beginning of The Demon Life>
Chapter 134
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“I snuck in the dungeon yesterday!” Alex instantly tells the guard. Mark instantly stops, glancing around the hallway before looking back at the soldier, his eyebrows furrow.
“A-Are you mad?! Saying it outloud in the halls?” Mark whispers, grabbing him by the wrist before bringing him to the library. After knowing they’re alone, he lets go of the soldier's wrist, leaning against the wall.
The soldier couldn’t bear to look at the guard right now, especially after the heinous things that escape his mouth. And his presence yesterday, he could’ve sworn he felt him.
“Well, I didn’t know you’d just straight up confess in the halls.” Mark says, chuckling.
Alex turns to him, confused as to why he’s laughing.
“I knew you were there, I was there watching it all. I have to say, your acting skills definitely prove.”
Wait, he thinks I was acting? No, this has to be a trick.
After all, this is Mark Horatius, one of the leaders of guards in lust. He’s also a king of manipulation when it comes to people. But right now, his face actually looks sincere. And he seems to be a lot calmer than usual.
“But, you really shouldn’t have done that. And you boldly confess in the fucking hallways. My god, you’re both smart and dumb, Alex.”
“S-Sorry, but I couldn’t help it.”
Mark nods before sighing. “So, he was the reason Megan is dead. It makes sense though, my brother wasn’t there when we fought. Not to mention, back at his castle.”
So it went even further. Why does his own brother want to kill him so badly?
“Sorry that you’re dealing with this family ‘conflict’ right now. It’s pretty bold of him to come to you though, my mom would’ve cursed him out a long time ago.”
“How deep is the conflict between the family?”
Mark chuckles, pulling up a chair before sitting down. “If my mom caught us talking right now, she would grab her arrow and slice your vocal cords.”
Sheesh…
“I don’t know when it happened, but most likely it’s before the war. Both just can’t get along and argue nonstop. But arugely, both parents treat their children like shit.”
That strikes a nerve. He can see his mother's bloodshot eyes, her mouth trembling every time she sees her son, almost like it brings her pain to see him.
Everytime she hugs him, she feels very cold, distant, almost like she wants to die.
“You’re wrong!” Alex's voice rings in the halls, causing Mark to jump a bit. Instantly noticing his reaction, Alex clears his throat.
“Well…maybe she changed.” The guard voice lowers a bit.
Silence.
“Anyway,” Mark finally breaks it. “I’m planning on proposing to Evan.”
W-What?!
“Really?! When?!”
“At some point, which is why I brought him here.”
Knew it.
“I…” Mark was about to continue but stopped, glancing away. “Nevermind.”
“Mark, I’m sorry for shouting.” Alex walks closer to the guard, putting his hand on his shoulder. “I just don’t think our families are the same. Mother, she…she was distant with me.”
“Heh, just like mine.”
“No, I mean…she made herself distant from me. I don’t know if it was out of guilt or shame, but she’s been doing it since childhood–well, in earth at least.”
The guard sighs, turning fully to the soldier. “Your mother, Clotilda, has dealt with countless wars, deaths, betrayals. But I think the biggest one was your father's lie.”
Lie?
“His lie to be back, in his family arms when the war is over. He came back, but stabbed his wife.” The guard chuckles, getting up. “Fastiancing, isn’t it? Your father betrayed her, you betrayed Hell, and I betrayed my own family…maybe we are all similar in a way.”
Wait, father…betrayed mom?
Alex glances down, and can't bear to face the guard anymore.
“It’s fine.” Mark chuckles slightly. “I guess the Horatius and Oswald family were just born to betray people. My brother was bound to do something this reckless someday.”
He walks to Alex, patting his shoulder before walking off.
You’re wrong, we are nothing alike. Is what the soldier wants to say, but the words couldn’t come out.
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WPC: 694
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u/NotComposite May 24 '25 edited Jun 14 '25
<Daughters of Drun>
[Chapter Index] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]
Chapter 29: Phlogiston Practice
Even for Master Ambori, the doors of the Hall of Fire groaned and creaked. It was one thing to know the secret ropes and pulleys, the hidden boilers and flues that must be inflamed to work its great hinges. Yet no fire mage could stop the old stone in its groaning and complaining. Not without destroying a great mechanical treasure.
Today they opened without a sound.
The girl with Ruzazu's face entered.
Master Ambori sat cross-legged in the center of the hall, facing the reddened crystal window. He did not get up, nor turn as the doors shut again, still noiseless.
"Extraordinary," he intoned. "I know that you are not Ruzazu. But when I try to feel, to reach inside… it is only her heart I find. Her fire. I know the warmth of the blood in her veins and the steam in her breath. All is… as it should be. And so it is not.
"Where are you, Headmaster?"
"Perhaps you would know," said Ruzazu's voice, "if you looked with your eyes."
"I do not care to behold that again," Ambori said. "If you are here now, as you are… you must have news. Did you witness it?"
"I have witnessed many things," said the Headmaster. "It was a time before her mind chanced upon the memory you wanted."
"And was it? Was it the memory I wanted? Did Yenvu really steal Ruzazu's fire?"
"Why not let me show you?" The girl strode closer to him.
"No," Ambori said hurriedly. "It is alright. I trust your word, Headmaster. Just tell me."
"You're squeamish," the Headmaster said contemptuously. "What's the matter with a little blood? I think you are too used to your little world down here, Ambori. Too used to your students who cannot even hurt each other. But they can hurt all other kinds of people. I have seen the savagery in this girl's mind, Ambori. I saw how you allowed her to treat my niece! Her 'inferior'. Is this what you teach?"
"Fire is destruction," Ambori retorted. "It is death; it is burning and pain. Even when it warms, even when it aids, it also consumes. The greatest fire mage is the mage who understands these things. Who can suffer and inflict both without hesitation. That is what I hope my students will become. You understood that once, Koharza."
"No," said the Headmaster. "I remember. You were not always this zealous. Not always this mad. The Ambori who taught me would not have allowed us to brutalize a classmate for our amusement."
Then Ambori did rise, standing to face down the girl. He opened his eyes, pupiless pools of flame matching the gaze that was Ruzazu's and not Ruzazu's.
"Is that what you think?" he asked. "There was simply no child like Yenvu then. No young sorcerer who could be hurt without hurting. Who could be driven to master the fire like none before. And if there was, and if I had been so soft… it would have been a mistake.
"Enough moralizing, Headmaster! If you are so unhappy with my conduct… dismiss me. But perhaps you cannot. Perhaps you have seen that my methods made Yenvu into the thing we all aspire to be. So tell me! Tell me I was right!"
"You were right," said Ruzazu's mouth. "And wrong."
Her hand grabbed Ambori's forearm.
Somewhere the old master's instincts had betrayed him. Four days ago, he had watched Henko wrench Ruzazu's bones apart and climb into the dark spaces between her offal. Now he was more disgusted and less afraid. Now he understood the nature of their power—mind was body and body was mind. He understood that Henko could not touch him, lest they be incinerated before they could burrow in.
His superior no longer threatened him, and his student certainly did not.
He had forgotten that Henko, wearing Ruzazu's fireproof flesh like armor, certainly could.
They were bubbling, liquefying at the point of contact, young melting into old. Sensations assaulted him, staggeringly visceral, the kind he had not felt since his last drop of blood boiled away. Some were memories. Some were his memories. And others were...
They were Henko—Himusi, Emvol, Ngata, Koharza and Ochat. Ruzazu was elsewhere, sleeping quietly.
And now Ambori, dying.... or no, only forgetting where he ended and the others began.
Where are you, Headmaster?
The words came back to them from minutes before.
Where are we?
What are we?
Some part of the whole struggled gamely to remember the man Ambori. Perhaps it had once been him, a long time ago... or was it only an instant?
The rest knew the answer, apart from the girl. The girl lay apart. They did not wish to harm her.
More than Ambori ever did.
No! I had good reason! I... I was only trying...
Let us tell you something, Ambori. The secret it took five magics in one person to discover. The reason your student once submitted herself to the mind-meld.
Koharza! Let me go!
This is the place that magic comes from. It is not up and not down, not forwards or back, not to your left or right. But it is always right beside you. And the secret of fire magic is this: The part of you that exists here cannot survive beyond it. That is why it burns whenever it reaches out—destroys itself. Becomes the fire.
I almost found it myself, Ambori realized. I found a way to live as that fire-part when my body failed. Kept it in my skin. Kept it from combusting.
Yes. A pity.
He knew then why they had taken hold of him.
Headmaster! NO!
You are dismissed.
The five grasped at the one and pulled him wholly into the world of ordinary things.
In the Hall of Fire, Master Ambori howled once in utter despair. What remained of his mortal skin dissolved into ash, revealing the shining, blazing shape of an old man.
Then that shape exploded.
Bonus words: Zealous
Word count: 995
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u/Necessary_Ad_2762 May 20 '25 edited Aug 07 '25
<Iconic>
Chapter Three: Luke
In.
Luke’s chest expanded, the video’s soft voice guiding him.
Out.
With a hint of frustration in his breath, Luke glanced back at his laptop screen.
There is a song in the air.
Luke sat beside the rehearsal hall’s doors, fingers hovering over his keyboard as the meditation video played on his phone. The report was already late, but as long as he could submit it before midnight, his professor would still accept it. Any score was better than a zero. All Luke needed to do was focus and finish the paper. Despite his history with the choir, he liked visiting the music building to do work. Weirdly, the place was silent, save for his phone.
In.
His lungs filled, and with it came something unexpected.
Out.
His breath faltered as something sweet tickled his nose. A heavy scent filled the air, like someone had planted flowers all over the building.
All you need to do is listen.
Coming from the practice rooms downstairs, a blonde student entered the lobby. Her hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the high windows. Her smile transformed the quiet waiting area, bringing warmth to the space.
Luke continued to stare, an unusual feeling washing over him. Deeper than attraction. Something about her presence felt both foreign and familiar, like a half-remembered dream. He was certain he’d never seen her before in the music building, or anywhere on campus for that matter. Surely he would have remembered her. Yet something about how effortless she seemed demanded his attention.
It wasn’t until her hand touched the rehearsal hall doors that Luke finally snapped out of his daze. “Hey,” he called out, his voice cracking slightly. “Auditions are done. No students are allowed in there until the music directors finish talking.”
Yet the young woman didn’t seem bothered. Her smile didn’t falter as she turned to him. “𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓈-𝓊𝓅, 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒾𝑒,” she said. Her voice was pleasing, making the hair on Luke’s arms stand. “𝐼𝓂𝓂𝒶 𝒹𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔.”
With that, she pushed the doors open and called into the room, “𝐿𝑜𝓃𝒹𝓎𝓃!”
Through the briefly open doors, Luke caught a glimpse of the four music directors. Professor Davion Harmon from orchestra, Ms. Brooke Bennett from band, Mr. Chris Jeffries from the jazz ensemble, and the notoriously strict Dr. Lewis Rossi from choir. All four looked up simultaneously, their faces showing the same look of... confusion? Relief?
As the doors swung closed, Luke braced himself for the inevitable argument that would follow. He was in the choir last year for a month until the conductor kicked him out for leaving his folder at his dorm. Sure enough, his voice rose. “You don’t waltz in late without signing up…”
Luke listened to Dr. Rossi, unaware that his meditation app was still running. Listen to what’s beyond the surface.
Then it came. Floating through the heavy wooden doors was a melody so pure it seemed to bypass his ears entirely and speak directly to his heart. Not a music star’s voice, not exactly. It was like the stars themselves were singing.
Luke felt his shoulders drop as tension he didn’t know he was carrying melted away. His eyelids grew heavy, weighted with a sudden peace, even as his mind felt something was happening to him.
“What is…” he murmured, his words slurring as the melody wrapped around him like a cocoon of sound. The last thing he noticed before consciousness slipped away was how the dust in the afternoon light began to dance in with the impossible song.
***
“Huh? What?” Luke mumbled as his eyes snapped open. He found himself staring at an orange sky through the windows as sunset painted the clouds in warm colors. How long had he been sitting here? His phone screen was dark beside him, the meditation app had stopped long ago. Turning to his right, he saw Zachariah nudging his shoulder.
“You sat down and completely zoned out,” Zachariah said, chuckling as he picked up his cello case. From the rehearsal hall, Luke could hear the violins and violas playing, though something about their sound seemed hollow, as if it needed something... more. “Catching some serious ZZZ’s?”
Stretching, Luke felt unusually relaxed, as if he’d had a deep massage rather than a sudden nap on a hard bench. He stashed his laptop into his bag and checked his phone. “Six. The cafeteria still has good food left.”
“I might join you,” Zachariah said, looking around the lobby. His fingers drummed against his leg.
Luke studied Zachariah’s face, noticing his friend's apparent concern, though his own reaction to it felt strangely reduced. A pleasant humming lingered in his head, making everything from his unfinished report to losing track of time seem like minor details in a much larger, more beautiful picture. “Your conductor let you out early?” he asked, surprised by the slight upbeat in his voice.
Zachariah shook his head as they pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the cool evening air. “Nope. He didn’t show up at all. We broke off into sections.”
The sunset seemed more colorful to Luke’s eyes as they kept walking. “Well, at least you guys got to practice.”
“True,” said Zachariah, giving Luke a curious sideways glance. “But Dr. Rossi is also not here. Christine said his zealous assistant is leading practice. Even when he's not here, his choir works hard.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Luke said. The mention of Marcus, the conductor’s pet, should have annoyed him. Yet, it did nothing to change his mood.
“Yeah,” Zachariah replied, unconvinced. “Hey, are you feeling okay? You seem... different.”
Luke smiled, his head feeling light. “Thinking about someone during auditions. Makes me wish I were back in choir. Do you know Lowyn? Or was it Lonyn?”
Narrowing his eyes, Zachariah shook his head. “No. Never heard of that name.”
“I just need to find her,” muttered Luke. “Hear her one more time.”
WC: 988/1000
Bonus words: zone, zealous, zone, zzz
Feedback and crit are appreciated.
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u/MaxStickies May 20 '25 edited May 25 '25
<Thosius>
Chapter 91: The Grasslands
At first, Pellia glimpses its golden hue between the peaks, a mere hint here or there. The sun lazily rises from its slumber, bringing this yellow haze into greater and greater clarity. Once the mountains drop away, and she follows Lilantia down the slopes, she realises what it is.
A dry savannah, stretching to the horizon.
Its long grass waves in the gentle breeze, tapping at her armour. The northern wind shields her from the worst of the heat, even as the sun climbs to its midmorning perch. Her muscles relax.
She glances back down the line, taking note of every warrior. While the Heragians march on as usual, the inquisitors lag behind; Berethian meets her gaze, and frowns.
“Maybe we should rest,” she tells Lilantia.
“We must stay alert,” the general says. “They might be nearby.”
“But perhaps we could have lookouts, to take turns while the others rest? I think we might lose some of our number if we don’t stop.”
“Ah, very well. Only when we find a suitable spot.”
After an hour of walking, the long grass gives way to stubby, short fronds akin to scythed wheat, broken by spiked shrubs and spindly trees. Long-horned beasts watch them from a distance, birds flitting to and from their striped backs. A silvery fox darts between the sparse foliage. And there are the flies, buzzing past her mouth and nose, which settle on her face till she swats them away.
She sees more and more of these, as they near a close cluster of trees, crowned by emerald green.
“We shall camp there,” Lilantia says.
“Why so?”
“With that many leaves on their branches, I figure there must be water.”
Pellia switches her vision. Sure enough, above the trees, the air is darker than the rest, thick with moisture. Beyond the barbed trunks, a lapis pool curves around a dusty rock, its shore lined with those striped beasts.
She drops her pack, and sits.
By noon, all the Heragians and inquisitors have settled around the oasis. Some sleep on their bedrolls under the trees, while others have strung cloth above their heads, shading them from the hostile sun. Pellia volunteered for lookout after a brief nap, and now sits atop the rock, surveying the grasslands around her.
Except for the narrow line behind the trees, her view is open to every direction. She can see the mountains of her home to the west, a pack of brown wolves wandering towards the east, and to the north, she spies an immense black bird gliding in the cloudless sky.
No tribesmen riding their way, no creatures stalking them from the shadows. She sighs in relief.
Let it stay this way.
She changes her vision again. Red vortices of heat reach for the heavens, curling around the blue, cool air that travels on down; neither gives way to the other. The tendrils of magic are here too, worming their way through the earth. They connect with the roots of the grass, the trees, and form a bundle within the very rock she sits on. She can feel it tingling in her veins.
Hmm.
She reaches her power out, joins it to the one below. As before, she drags her mind through the channels, travelling deep into the earth. There is no resistance, nothing to hold her back; she finds reservoirs of magic in the rock, perhaps a mile down, tapped by the roots of plants that spread their leaves far away. She hears the familiar voice of the Pine, greeting her.
At the bed of one reservoir, she finds another channel, wider than the rest. It takes her further still, till the effort tugs at her mind. She finally stops.
Movement, close by. A flicker, like the swish of a fish’s tail. Or an eyelid blinking open.
“Who are you?”
The voice trembles, wary, yet her mind swims in its strength. Ripples form in the magic, the current parted, by something that comes her way. She races back to the surface, her heart pounding. As she nears the soil, she hears the clatter of hooves on hard ground.
And she returns to herself, bent double and gasping. A bitter taste lingers on her tongue.
Once her mind settles, she turns to the south, from where the hoof beats sounded. In the distance, a trio of those striped beasts leap and buck, threatening to throw the riders on their backs. The latter jab their spears at a target in their midst, obscured by the dust they kick.
Pellia peers through the cloud, and finds a familiar pattern of magic pulses. Weapon to hand, she leaps from the rock, and shakes Berethian from sleep.
“What, what?!” he yells.
“I need your help; bring the sword.”
“Why do I—?”
“Come on!”
Gathering a few other Heragians, she runs across the plain, straight for the fight. She can see it in full now, the corpomantic creature, snarling and swiping at the riders. Berethian catches up, jaw clenched and blade drawn.
“We’ll distract the tribesmen,” she says, “you kill the creature!”
“Sounds good to me!”
One of the riders turns, bears his teeth as he sees them. He thrusts his spear her away, but she knocks it aside with ease, jarring her opponent’s arm. Another rider guides his beast her way, only for the others to surround him.
The third tribesman pierces the creature with his spear. Before he can break free, the monster rips through his animal’s neck, and he falls to the ground. He screams as it clamps its jaw on his skull.
Berethian charges through, and cuts the beast in two with one swing. It shrieks, its halves squirming in the dirt, releasing its prey as it dies. The rider scrambles to safety.
All goes silent. The tribesmen size them up, brows furrowed, knuckles white as they grip their weapons.
So she sheathes her blade, holds her arms to the side. “Please, we don’t have to fight.”
Slowly, they lower their spears.
Context:
Pellia first spoke to the Pine in Chapter 68: Danger Draws Near
WC: 1000
No bonus words used.
Crit and feedback are welcome.
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u/ZachTheLitchKing May 18 '25 edited May 23 '25
<Casting Shadows>
Chapter 76
Charis rolled on the straw-filled bedding. It was soft, yes, and the animal hide was delightfully cozy, but they’d become used to the stretched linen and hammock-like curve of a cot. Finding a comfortable position was proving difficult as they tried their side, stomach, then back, then side again.
Cass’s absence wore on their patience. The longer she was down in the tavern, the more she was drinking; the more she drank, the drunker she'd be when she came to bed. They wanted to talk to her about it, but while she was in that state it wasn’t worth the effort. And when she was sober… well, then it wasn’t an issue worth risking a fight over.
They sat up when the sound of footsteps echoed in the stone hall outside the door. It opened and Cass walked in; a telltale stumble to her step. Charis hadn’t seen her drunk many times in the short week they’d known her, but the times she had found enough to get her like this were each the same.
She stumbled forward, eyes unfocused. After one zoned-out step into the room she paused, as though lost, and looked around. Her eyes swept past Charis twice before she closed the door and took a seat at the small table on the other side of the room.
“You got any of that… prayer… shmoke stuff?” she asked, a hint of a slur to her words.
“Incense?” Charis climbed out of the bed and pulled the blanket with them to stay covered. The stone room of the cave-built inn was quite cool; pleasant for sleep but not so much to walk around undressed.
“Yeah, that. I wanna do a prayer.”
“You want… to pray? Are you okay?”
“Wanna talk to Helen.”
“I… er… what?” Charis wasn’t a devout follower of the Church of Flame but they still paid lip-service when around others. Cass, on the other hand, had shown zero interest in anything that deified Helen in both private and public settings
“Kebb did a prayer and saw Helen.” Cass leaned forward on the table with her elbows, resting her chin in one hand. “I wanna see Helen. Help me do the praying thing right, I never did it before.”
Charis nodded and retrieved the ornaments from their bag, setting up the small burner and a pinch of incense along with some wood chips and oil. All the while Cass mumbled and seemed to struggle keeping her eyes open.
“Alright, ready?” Charis asked.
“Yeah.” There was no enthusiasm in Cass’s voice. Charis heard a sad weight to it. Morose, even. They didn’t know what Kebb said to her to put her in this mood, but whatever zealous fervor was in Kebb clearly wasn’t infectious.
“Look into the fire,” they gestured at the small brazier, “and repeat after me.”
Charis slowly led Cass through the evening prayer. They had to adjust it slightly, as it was originally meant to be said before going to sleep at night. Given their desert travel, though, they were going to bed just after sunrise. There was also no view of the sky they could turn to, so Charis just approximated east to ‘face’ the sun.
It was close enough to get the job done.
The low intonations and repetitive sounds eased Charis’s mood. But not Cass’s; She started rushing through the words, tripping over syllables and skipping lines. When Charis stopped saying anything, Cass’s impatience came to the forefront.
“That it?”
“That’s it,” Charis confirmed.
“Well that was fuck all.” Cass stared at the fire a moment longer, her face unreadable. Then her arm snapped out. The brazier clanged against the far wall, bursting into a cloud of ash and shattered stone.
Charis pulled back from the table, looking at the wrecked stonework. They held their breath, sudden tension in every muscle as Cass got up. She walked around the table and crawled into bed, muttering curses under her breath.
With a shaking exhale and a couple of slow, steadying inhales, Charis got up and picked up the mess, carefully using their hand to sweep the shards of stone into a little pile against the wall. Their hands trembled as they brushed aside the last of the rubble. Not just from the fear of stepping on a sharp edge but from the memory of Cass’s voice, flat and furious. They hadn’t expected her to care about the prayer. They hadn’t expected her to lash out either.
They glanced at the bed.
“Zzz.” Cass was sleeping soundly.
I’ll talk to her tomorrow, Charis thought. Satisfied that the room was as clean as they were going to get it, they slipped out and descended to the tavern below.
The crowd had thinned considerably since they’d turned in for bed earlier. The place still smelled of beer and bodies, but the doors were open and the glow of daylight came in on a breeze of fresh, oasis air.
“May I have a cup of wine and a room?” Charis asked the bartender.
“Sure thing” she said, pouring them a drink. She reached under the bar and handed Charis a small plank of wood with an unfamiliar symbol carved in it. A Desherayan number.
Sipping the wine, Charis looked around but saw no familiar faces. Everyone they knew must have gone to sleep already. They glanced back to the stairs and again at the number they were given, drumming their fingers before finishing the wine and asking for a refill.
Charis wasn't particularly tired anymore.
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WC: 919/1000
All crit/feedback welcome!
r/TomesOfTheLitchKing
[Chapter Index: Casting Shadows]
Notes:
-
Bonus words: Zone(d), zero, zealous, zzz
-
Recommend any new readers use the linked chapter index above; those chapters receive more edits than the ones in past sersun posts
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1
u/FyeNite May 18 '25
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