“We found them in the chicken coop!” THe kids were smiling, as though this was a good thing. Liam tugged on his beard, staring at the largest eggs he had ever seen.
“Can we keep it?” The hopeful faces would have melted most men. But Liam was not most men. Liam was a parent.
“No.”
“But Dad…”
“We don’t even know what they are. I’m sorry but I’ll need to hand these in, well, somewhere.” Ignoring the laments, Liam went to look for a box to put the eggs into. The trio had settled somewhat by the time he returned. He began lining the box when a faint crack was heard.
Liam’s head snapped around in time to see a shard of an egg go flying. All three kids jumped back as the largest egg split to reveal the strangest looking lizard Liam had seen. As the other two eggs began to crack, the larger one stretched up and out of the towel nest the kids had made. It was as long as his shin from nose to tail tip, covered in dark green skin. The lizard rubbed its head on the carpet, trying to shed the last of the egg sack.
Frozen in place, Liam was at a loss for words. Lizards don’t have wings. The thing gave a cough and a tiny flame was spat out. Lizards don’t spit fire either. He stopped the small flame out and looked to see all three kids slowly shuffling towards it.
“CAN WE KEEP IT?!” THe kids descended on the pseudo-lizard. Liam lunged to stop them from touching it, but the thing rolled over and leaned into the pats. The other two pseudo-lizards came down to join in, one navy and one red.
“No. Just, no.” Liam reached for his phone, at least he knew who to call now.
“Dad, wait!”
“Why not?”
“My dagon.”
“It is NOT a dragon! I’m calling animal management. Guys, we don’t know what they are. The fire spit thing is not ok. You can play with them until they get picked up.” They couldn’t be dragons. They had all but gone extinct after the government began destroying egg nests.
Dragons had been a fashionable pet once upon a time. As the practical implications of having a pet that will outlive you became apparent the government had taken steps to prevent their breeding for sale. Private ownership was no longer an option. Feral dragons released into the wild after their owner died were a real problem and anyone caught harbouring eggs was given severe penalties. These were not dragons.
“My dagon.” The little one cuddled the blue lizard tightly, which just seemed to make it happier. The other two were silently stroking one each. The ringing led to an automated message, which Liam missed entirely.
A short growl was followed by the lunge of their dog, who rushed the lizards. Liam caught him before he could get too close. The lizards however, had scattered, the kids running after them.
The blue one was trying its best to fly. Its wings were not up to the task and the poor thing nearly landed in the fish tank. The green one was sitting on top of the red behind the sofa. It growled when the kids tried to coax it out. Liam pulled the kids away and sent the elder one to take the dog back outside.
“My dagon.” The little girl had the blue one in her arms again. Liam redialled animal control and blessedly, a real person answered.
“Hi, yes, look I’ve had a few of what appear to be a type of dragon like lizard hatch, the kids found the eggs in the chicken coop and they hatched just now.”
“No worries Sir, we get many reports of nests in strange places around this time of year. The feral ones tend to come into town more and more these days. It’s the…” Great, Liam though, a talker. By the time she had finished the mandatory policy warnings and given him a full weather report the kids had assembled in front of him.
“Please Dad, what about just this one?” The blue one had not left the girl’s arms once. They levelled him with their best expressions of hope again.
“Pease, Dagon?”
“Ok Sir, how many eggs were there in total?”
“Three.” The navy lizard, despite being the same size as his daughter, managed to make itself look small in her arms. He really couldn’t tell which one was clinging harder.
“Oh good, a small nest. And how many survived the hatching?”
“Three.”
“Did any make an attempt to fly?”
“Ah yes, one.”
“Noted. Occasionally the dragons are kept as guardians for various facilities but flying is a trait we don’t want. Please make sure you let us know which one as it’ll be put down on site. Did any escape?”
Liam paused for a moment. He wanted them gone, he didn’t really want them dead. The navy dragon had started snoring.
“Pease Daddy.”
“Yes one escaped, the other two are balled up behind my lounge.” He waved at the kids and tried to shush them. The force of holding in the excitement went to their legs and they bounced around him.
“Ok Sir, we’ll send someone out to collect them within the hour.” Liam hung up the phone, wondering how the hell they were going to hide a dragon in the middle of the suburbs.
Liam turned to the kids, still bouncing.
“We need to hide it. Look we’ll keep it but you need to follow the rules I set out. And I guess it needs a name.”
Loryn sighed as she laid her head upon the stone. The cold soothed the throbbing, which only let in more memories. The girl’s face, their cries, her failure. What could she say? The many valid reasons she was too late to save them wouldn’t bring back their homes. The runner had arrived half in a fever. By the time he was able to tell her what happened she already knew she was too late. She had torn through the forest as fast as she could, hoping to at least arrive before the enemy left. Luck was not with her. She arrived in time to see the smolder of what used to be a happy town.
Loryn left them to their grief. There would be much to do in the way of repair and recovery, and it was evident the gold was gone. She quietly withdrew, intending to head back to the outpost she had been at before. The spring hunting had made it a crowded place. She needed to get back to the woods. The forest was her home. Despite the need for them, heroes are not generally well paid. She felt a brief moment of bitterness when she thought of the town. Leveled now, but they’d once known comfort. It was a feeling she hadn’t known since childhood.
The bitterness grew to form a tear. The unwanted daughter, the smallest page, the traitor, the exile. Just once, it would have been nice to be the friend, the lover. Loryn had settled for the hero, the one loved by those who benefit. The one sent on her way when the dragon was gone or the crisis averted. Worst still was the one blamed when disaster was not stopped. The one who failed to prevent every danger. Loryn knew how fast the hero could change to scapegoat. She took her leave before the mob formed. And as always, it was back to the woods she went. She tried to sit up, managing to get on her elbows, content with the slight lift in elevation.
This time, however, was different. The troll that sprang from the bushes just outside the town took her completely by surprise. Trolls were not common in that area. They were certainly not known for stealth. At the time it happened she had no time to puzzle it out, all her focus had been on surviving. Trolls are quick, despite their size. It had taken her by surprise, giving her a deep gouge in her thigh and knocking her into a tree. Though she had won, she was badly hurt. It was odd enough that she considered going back to the village to warn them.
Now, however, it was beginning to strike Loryn as more than odd. It had been no ordinary troll. Something tugged at the back of her mind, a detail that made a chill run through her. The beast had smiled. The thought of a troll with an emotional register disturbed her. It had smiled after scratching her. She traced the wound through her leg. It had already shrunk to the size of a small paper cut.
Loryn sprang to her legs, dizzy and frightened that feat was even possible after the beating she’d had. Her breath took on a low rumble and she lumbered forward on unsteady legs. She had no idea what was happening, the pains coursed through her so quickly she barely had time to register them all. A blinding pain shot across her jaw, echoed in her lower back. Raising a hand to her mouth she felt with horror her lower canines grow, piercing her upper lip. She gingerly lifted and removed it, only to let out a mute scream as she felt her insides come out through her tailbone.
She screamed and a roar issued forth. She reached behind her to feel her tailbone lengthened, covered with stretched thin skin, fur coming forth at the end. She collapsed, rolling to her side and crying. An itch began to crawl along her skin. She fought the urge to scratch, but gave in and met a short by coarse layer of fur.
A snapped branch in the bushes took her attention. She turned to gaze at what looked to be the oldest troll in existence hobbling towards her. His face had a look of concern, which just increased her fear. Trolls are savages, yet he seemed to approach her as though she was a wild creature. He stopped beside her head and peered down into her face.
“This should not have been possible. We need to have a conversation, my child.”
Garble stumbled into the next room, leaving his brothers in the cold box. He had never taken a liking to human food, but Mangle loved the sweet breads so much he would eat till he couldn’t move. He sighed at the thought of having to carry Mangle’s share.
Not that the load was very big mind you. This human must be what Hack called a minimalist. While Garble had to admit they were getting better hauls since Hack started labeling the humans, these “minimalists” were not worth the effort. Very few shines, never any pets and almost nothing to hide behind if the human wakes up.
He was putting the coasters in his bag (probably fake metal, but one never knows) when Garble’s eyes spotted the smooth black square on the coffee table. He had never seen a coffee, but Hack assured him that’s what the table was for. Excited that he would be the first to try it, he took a bite.
The square coffee wouldn’t break apart and tasted like metal. Garble shook his head at the thought that humans made whole tables for this.
“Me too!” Mangle had appeared over his shoulder. He tried to grab it out of Garbles hand.
“I want the lounge food!”
“That’s not food.” stated Hack as he joined them. Finishing off the contents of a jar of tomato paste – his favorite – he took the thing from Garble.
“How do you know?” Garble was a little put out it wasn’t coffee.
“It’s metal. Humans don’t eat metal.” Hack turned it over and back.
“Give it back! I found it first” Garble growled.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“YOU don’t even know what it is!” Garble tried to grab it. The two gremlins scuffled a moment, pulling and pushing until the thing suddenly lit up.
The pair dropped the metal not coffee and all three gremlins stared at it. Just when they were getting brave enough to approach, the light went out.
“Now you’ve broken it! And I didn’t even get a taste!” Mangle began to cry.
“Stop it. Let me work out what it is and then you may lick it!” Hack picked the shiny thing up and began touching every inch of the surface. He had seen humans do this with what they called “mobiles”. He assumed if it felt comfortable enough, it would light up again. He stroked it from end to end.
Garble had seen enough. Mangle was wailing, he himself was hungry and the only interesting thing was now Hack’s new pet.
“I’m leaving.” Garble said, or rather started to say. Hack had managed to make it light up again. THey took a better look at it. There was a series of numbers on it. Hack ran his finger down the middle of the numbers, making them disappear.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“Many humans use that as their password.” Garble tried very hard to look like he knew what a password was.
There were lots of little squares on it now. Garble smirked. Squares within squares, humans were weird. Mangle, running out of patience, tried to grab it. In his haste he pressed on one of the boxes.
Suddenly he was in the square. He yelped and began frantically slapping it.
“Stop! You’ll break it!” shouted Hack
“I’m trapped inside! Let me out!
“No you’re not, you’re right here.” to prove it, Garble slapped Mangle. As the two started bickering, Hack took the thing in hand.
“I’m in it too.” he announced. The others peered over to find they were both in there too. Hack tried a wave, and they saw the second Hack raise the opposite hand.
“He’s not me! He’s trying to copy me!”
“Who is he, and why do they look like us?” Mangle asked, more than a little fearful.
“None who will get away with it!” said Garble sternly.
Hack put the metal down on the table and the three of them hovered over it. The imposters looked as confused as they were.
“Ok. Tell us who you are and why you’ve stolen our appearance.” Hack spoke very calmly, hoping to seem friendly. The Hack in the metal not only refused to answer, but copied what he said.
“Do you think they can hear us?” asked Garble. The gremlins asked many questions but got nothing other than silent mimicry in exchange.
Garble had had enough. He picked up a large black sphere from the bookshelf and hovered over the metal again. The fake Garble had one too.
“If you don’t start talking, I’m going to hit you.” He said it in as menacing a voice as he could muster. The fake Garble stared straight into him. His patience ran out.
Before Hack could stop him, he slammed the sphere down on the gremlins in the metal. The thing broke into pieces, the light was gone and the fakes were nowhere to be seen. The three real gremlins stared at the pieces a moment.
Heavy thuds were heard from upstairs. The humans were waking up. Garble, Mangle and Hack grabbed what they could, slung their bags over their shoulders and dove for cover. The human entered the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He winced as he stepped on a piece of glass.
“My tablet!” The human forgot all about his foot and picked up the broken thing as though it was something precious.
“Come, before he fixes the gremlin catcher!” said Hack. The three gremlins fled, vowing never to return to the home of the wizard with the gremlin trapping tablet.
Gunter examined the horizon from his current spot. He was traveling to the city on a mission from his father. The merchant wished to expand his business and had decided to send one of his sons to establish a shop in a city on the far side of the mountains. It was to be an arduous journey, and Gunter was the only son who volunteered.
Gunter was eager to set out on his own. The young man was in need of an adventure. He felt stifled beneath his older brothers, both successful in their own industries. He wanted to make his father proud and set out at once. Though familiar with the forest he crossed through, he had not been as far as the mountains, and was excited for the journey. His father had been dubious, as Gunter had never really shown himself responsible. However, with no other options, he allowed his son the chance at independence.
When he arrived at the base of the mountain, the locals tried their best to turn him away. They told him that the mountains were cursed, and any who went up were not heard from again. Strange music could be heard from time to time, floating on the wind from those peaks, and there were several occasions the weather over the pass was completely different to the weather over town.
Gunter thanked them for their concern, but fearing further delay, he continued on. A few of the locals accompanied him to the base of the mountain before leaving him to his journey. He traveled along a small road for many hours, which gave way to a dirt track before turning to rock entirely. He was unused to the physical exertion, having led a very comfortable life as the son of a wealthy merchant. He did not regret his choice and was confident of reaching the next town with ease.
As night fell, Gunter decided to make camp on a large shelf jutting out from the mountain. He was still low on the rise, and the wind was barely noticeable. After a small meal he retired for the night, sleeping soundly with the sounds of the woods to soothe him
When he awoke, his eyes landed on a figure seated across the now cold fire from him. Gunter jumped up in shock. The ridge he lay on, while low, was simply too high for a man of his advanced years, as the stranger was quite clearly elderly. His visage was not welcoming. His back was bent, and all of his skin sagged. His grey mane stuck out in all directions. His beard was just as unruly and hid a smile that was far from comforting.
His tattered, oversized robe matched his hair and seemed to billow with a wind that was not present. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Deep blue and impossible to read, they stood out vividly against the grey visage. When he was able to tear his gaze away from those eyes, Gunter noticed the harp, half as tall as the stranger’s torso, which the man kept close to him. Made from silver and tinged with a blue sheen, the strings appeared to glow in the morning light.
As his eyes came to rest on the harp, the elderly man began to speak. A low rumble in the air met his words, as he introduced himself as The Lord of the Mountain. His voice, he said, commanded the winds, his moods shaped the clouds, and his temper could flare the wildest storms. He had guarded the mountain for centuries. Gunter backed toward the mountain, unsure if he believed the man, but wary all the same. He told Gunter not to fear, it had been many years since the last visitor, and he was eager to hear Gunter’s tale.
Gunter explained his father’s mission to found a new shop in a city over the ridge. The Mountain Lord seemed amused by the young man’s loyalty to his family. He told Gunter that though he can cover the mountains in a fog so dense none can see through, and storms so violent the very ground is torn, he had a longing for companionship. He had met many travelers over the years, though few he could say he was fond of. To amuse himself, he began to invent games to play with them.
As the old man spoke, the day brightened, and the land took on a vivid hue. Gunter was very afraid. The Mountain Lord stated that he is a fair man, and so each game, while different from the last, can be won by travelers if they are determined enough. He invited Gunter to play such a game with him. If Gunter won, he would give him his storm harp. Gunter’s eyes fell on the instrument again, and he thought of the price it would fetch in town.
‘This is no ordinary harp.” The Mountain Lord explained, “with it I control all weather on the mountain, it will bring gales wherever you summon. This power I would give you freely…if you win.” Here the old man smiled. “But, if you lose, you will remain on this mountain forever.”
Gunter hesitated, as he did not trust this elderly man at all. He also feared this game would delay him longer than his father had patience for. He went to speak his mind, but the elder man interrupted him
“Or, you could leave, though I would be very upset if you did”. The air crackled as the old man spoke the last sentence. The air grew cooler, and Gunter’s fear rose. He accepted the old man’s invitation as thunder began to rumble along the ridge when he clapped his hands.
“Excellent! The game is simple. All you must do to win, is to make it from one side of the mountain pass to the other, a journey you were already making anyway. However,…” the old man leaned forward and his smile deepened, “the mountain very much wants you here, I imagine it will try to confuse you.” The laugh the old man gave was so sinister Gunter was left feeling cold despite the heat of the sun. The Lord of the Mountain disappeared.
Gunter sat immovable for a time. He heard the words of the locals returning to him. Why had no one mentioned this mountain spirit? Perhaps none of them knew, and he wondered if any of them had ever been up the pass. As the sun reached its noon point, he realized he had not yet broken camp. Whether for this odd game or his father, he needed to continue. He packed up what belongings he had and started up the rise.
As the afternoon wore on, Gunter spotted a small goat looking at him from a boulder at the mouth of the pass. The grey shaggy thing watched him intently as he passed beneath the ledge it sat on. Gunter felt unnerved by the beast, though he could not have explained why. The terrain grew rougher as he walked, and he paused as the road before him split, one path becoming quite narrow as it rose higher towards the peak, the other continuing level as far as the eye could see.
Gunter had not been advised of a split and was debating between the two when the earth began to vibrate. Small rocks began to bounce and dance around his feet. Fear caught him and when several larger rocks came crashing down, he realized he was experiencing a landslide. He had heard of such things, but it had not prepared him. He watched helplessly as the land itself made ripping noises, though one sound could be heard over it all.
The shaggy goat began to bray, and Gunter watched as it took off along the rising path. In his shock, he followed it up, and the goat seemed to slow down for him. Gunter dodged boulders as big as his torso that crashed around him. He ran as best he could in the small beast’s wake.
The goat led him to a cave high up the mountainside. Gunter huddled in the cave, tense and fearful. He was terrified the cave mouth would be covered, or the ceiling collapse, but going back outside was simply not an option. The fierce wind howled, but he could now hear the ground as it removed its top layer, shedding rock as though it were a blanket. It seemed as though the mountain would crush him and continued for what felt like an eternity. Gunter closed his eyes and thought of home.
All of a sudden, the noise stopped. Gunter opened his eyes and saw that the goat had disappeared during the slide. He also noted he could see light again. The land looked far too bright in the afternoon sun. He gathered what had not been lost in his mad run and took in his surroundings. The landscape had been badly torn up. He looked for a way down, failed and resigned himself to the steeper path.
The path did level out after a few hours, and Gunter carried along at a brisk pace. As the afternoon rolled on, the path grew less clear, and a mist rolled in. It started as a light haze, but by late afternoon the mist was so thick the path was obscured. His progress slowed considerably, as he crept along unable to see more than a meter in front of himself.
Straining to see, Gunter spotted a light in the distance. He watched as it appeared to float towards him, before stopping to hover before his face. Bewildered, he followed the light when it took off in the direction it had come from. He was thinking of the goat, hoping this was similar help. When he began to stub his boots on tree roots and walked directly into a tree, he knew the light had led him off the path. He also knew he could not find the path again on his own, so he helplessly continued to follow the little bobbing spark. He feared the light a trick, as the light increased pace the rougher the terrain became. Gunter knew if he lost it, he was lost, as tried his best to keep up.
As night fell, another light appeared through the fog. The bobbing light stopped in front of a parting in the trees, and Gunter realized the fog was dispersing. The light, he saw was the moon. He had not realized how much time had passed as he wandered through the mist, and he was excited when he realized where he was.
Looking through the trees, he could see he had reached the other side of the mountain. The pass lay below him, and if he went carefully down, he would be able to reach it by morning. Gunter almost yelped in excitement, as he saw how close he was to his goal now. He made the decision not to make camp, but to ease his way downwards, the moonlight making the landscape easy to navigate.
As he descended, he thought he could hear the faint sounds of music. He could not place the tune, nor see where it came from. The music reminded him of something. As it rose in volume, he began to think of home. He thought of the woods he grew up in, and the smell of the kitchens at home. The music’s sweet melody took his memory back to hauling a yule tree home, and the happy faces of his family. Gunter began to weep softly, as he thought of the pride his father was sure to feel for him, and a vision of himself in charge of a shop made of a state of bliss he had not felt in many months.
Just as his vision saw him head of his own estate, Gunter heard a sharp crack, and watched as a fork of lightning landed beside him. In an instant the vision disappeared, just in time for Gunter to see he was about to walk off an overhand of rock. The music roared into a wild thrumming of strings and cascades of rain as the thunder and storm winds gave off a racked as though at war with one another. Gunter lunged for a nearby tree, clinging for all his strength as gale winds threatened to rip it from the ground.
The storm rose around Gunter, howling and buffeting him against the trees. His fingers were white and cramped, his muscles screaming with the strain of hanging on. His last vision was of the old man, The Mountain Lord. He appeared as a giant astride the huge thundercloud he rode. His hair flailed in the wind and his eyes shone with the fury of the tempest. The man began to laugh, a vicious sound of grating rock echoing in all directions. Gunter’s hands lost their grip, allowing the wind to hurl him into the rockface. Then all he knew was darkness.
Upon waking, Gunter was seized by the light. The sun shone so bright the landscape appeared pure white for a moment. He was startled by how quiet everything was after the chaos of the night before. Looking around, he realized he was still on the ledge, the tree broken in half on the ground beside him. He felt stiff and cold, but euphoria flowed through him as he sat up slowly, which mingled with triumph when he saw how close to the edge of the pass he was. Not even the sight of the Mountain Lord watching him could dampen his spirits. He got up slowly and began to laugh.
“I won!” Gunter exclaimed, “I made it to the other side! Now for my prize!” and he held out a hand to the old man, with his eyes on the harp. The Mountain Lord only laughed in response and pointed over the ledge to a dark spot on the ground
Gunter felt his heart sink into his chest. He hesitated but looked to where he was pointing and saw what appeared to be a person on the ground below. He followed the old man down to the figure, not fearing a fall, as he feared what he would see when he arrived far more.
Gunter looked down at his mangled body in horror. His body was bent in strange angles, and the ground was dark beneath it. He could not take in what he was seeing. He did not feel dead, and yet there he was.
“Some people,” said the Mountain Lord, “cling to life so much, they miss the moment of their own death.” and then he laughed. The old man disappeared still laughing, as Gunter looked at his body with dread, realizing he would never leave the mountain.
Writer’s Exercises are prompts to get the creative juices flowing. They can be bits of world building, character creation or totally random pieces. You can find a description of the writer’s exercise prompts I use here.
It must be done quickly. The flesh will morph before your eyes if you’re not careful. It wants to go back to it’s original form from the moment the last breath escapes. If it can achieve this, the soul will be released and the flavor utterly ruined. A good chef need do his own butchery here for the succulent beast to retain the magical essence.
Waste nothing. Only a fool neglects to collect the blood, with the current price per ounce. If the beast has teeth good value can be had from jewelers. And of course the organs can be sold to the corpse pokers and hedge wizards. An economical cook can regain almost as much as was spent obtaining the thing, making it a great choice for a large feast.
Once the frame is divided discard any parts that have reverted. They will taste bitter and sour. Do not let your sense of economy bleed in here, a reverted part is useless. Anywhere you see skin, especially if it has tattoos is a bad review waiting to happen.
If you are planning in advance, the meat must now be frozen. This is less than ideal, as parts will continue to revert until fully frozen. Also it can only be cooked from frozen in a sealed environment, as it will begin to rot upon thawing and oxidizing.
If you are preparing to cook straight away, which I hope you are, set your ovens up to accommodate the various cuts. Cook each piece on low for 3 days, no more or less. Be precise. Allow the finished meats to rest an hour before serving. This dish requires no garnish other than a smatter of herbs. Don’t embarrass me.
Writer’s Exercises are prompts to get the creative juices flowing. They can be bits of world building, character creation or totally random pieces. You can find a description of the writer’s exercise prompts I use here.
There once was a small boy. He had never been off the front step in his life. His whole 8 rotations spent inside the compound. Every memory occurred within the building behind him.
He had once thought of leaving. He had even put his best shirt in a bag, gathered his teddy and made it as far as the hall. The door had been more intimidating than The Mother that day. The sun glare through the windows felt as though it was pushing him backwards and he abandoned the plan.
He could hear The Mother shouting. It wasn’t his real mother, she had died well before his earliest memory. The thing chose to use the word like a title, hoping the authority of it would be recognized by the children. The children were obedient, but that had nothing to do with the title.
The boy knew he was running out of time. Once The Father returned his opportunity would be lost. It should not have been a big deal. The end of the street was visible from the step. The other kids told stories of people who walked on the road, though no one had ever actually seen this.
He took a hesitant step forwards. Nothing happened. No killer gas or assassins as the boys said. He took another step. The kidnappers and savage animals The Uncle had warned them about failed to appear. His toes reached the top of the first stair and the only thing of note was the nothing he experienced.
The boy released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stood there, just breathing. A part of him was surprised he had made it outside. He didn’t really have a plan from here. His insides slid south a little as his mind drifted to The Father, and what he would do if he saw the boy.
Gingerly, his food shaking as he moved, he took a step. And then another. The bottom of the stairs came quickly. Sight and sound seemed suspended as he stared across the road. Of all the things he could have seen, that was the last he would have guessed.
C.M. Wellsmore 