Granny Smith really outdid herself with her apples.
~Michael
Thursday, November 13, 2008
D.H. Hill
Man...
I really ought to start going to work.
Last year, the NCSU library (D.H. Hill) opened up a new wing, renovated to create new spaces and generally modernize the East Wing. Entering the wing from the central tower, though, I can't help but feel like the 1960s threw up all over the library.
The curvilinear forms, the bright colors, even the neon-rimmed clock and the large screen showing a rotating set of images (NCSU from Google Earth, Mount St. Helens from the air, various clouds and geographical features) scream "future" in the worst possible way: the overwrought manner of the Jetsonian design of the acid generation.
NCSU's main campus is riddled with poor design decisions that seem like they sprung directly from the body of the 60s, like Athena from Zeus. Harrelson Hall is a good example.
At least Harrelson has an excuse, though. It was built in 1961. I don't understand why the university thought that returning to this design idiom was a grand idea, especially after the successful erection of the very modern (in a good way) EB1.
Maybe it's a main campus thing. The stunning 1911 Building and Holladay Hall, along with their well-designed brethren, were all designed prior to the 1950. All of the buildings on main campus built after that are downright sloppy.
Ah, well, I guess I'll just continue using the stacks when I'm in the library (not that I ever am). I have to admit, though, the new conservatory looks nice.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
I really ought to start going to work.
Last year, the NCSU library (D.H. Hill) opened up a new wing, renovated to create new spaces and generally modernize the East Wing. Entering the wing from the central tower, though, I can't help but feel like the 1960s threw up all over the library.
The curvilinear forms, the bright colors, even the neon-rimmed clock and the large screen showing a rotating set of images (NCSU from Google Earth, Mount St. Helens from the air, various clouds and geographical features) scream "future" in the worst possible way: the overwrought manner of the Jetsonian design of the acid generation.
NCSU's main campus is riddled with poor design decisions that seem like they sprung directly from the body of the 60s, like Athena from Zeus. Harrelson Hall is a good example.
At least Harrelson has an excuse, though. It was built in 1961. I don't understand why the university thought that returning to this design idiom was a grand idea, especially after the successful erection of the very modern (in a good way) EB1.
Maybe it's a main campus thing. The stunning 1911 Building and Holladay Hall, along with their well-designed brethren, were all designed prior to the 1950. All of the buildings on main campus built after that are downright sloppy. Ah, well, I guess I'll just continue using the stacks when I'm in the library (not that I ever am). I have to admit, though, the new conservatory looks nice.
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Vanilla-Mint Listerine
Using vanilla-mint Listerine tastes almost exactly like gargling with Captain Morgan.
~Michael
~Michael
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Nellehseran, Chapter Two
(Before this, read chapter one)
As the sun reached the midpoint of its daily journey, Kilrik began to feel a little peckish, but ignored his hunger as he normally did at lunch. Only a few moments passed before he heard a low, squelching groan from beside him. He turned to Nell, who had stopped in the road, blushing and glancing away as she grasped her abdomen. She looked sideways at him, smiling sheepishly. “Do you have any food?” she asked, scrunching up her nose and shrugging her shoulders.
Kilrik chuckled, pulling open his belt satchel as he looked around for a convenient place to eat. “Sorry,” he said, “I normally skip lunch. We’re in a nice, empty part of the road, though, so let’s just eat in the grass.” The stretch of road they were walking lay next to a low hillock rising out of the swamp. The land immediately surrounding this small dry patch was even less suitable for farming than most of the region, sinking in a stinking mire of drowning vegetation. As a result, the area lay uncultivated, the nearest farmers reduced by distance to animated dolls wandering about their toy farms. A small ditch separated the hill from the road, tracing an overgrown line of amber grasses that obscured part of the hill.
As soon as Nellehseran stepped over the small ditch to climb the hill, she stopped, arching her eyebrows. Sniffing the air, she clapped her hand to her face as she bent double, coughing and retching while she stumbled back out into the street. Rik ran over to her, gripping her shoulders in concern.
“What happened?” he asked, pulling her back gently until he could see her face.
Starting to regain her composure, Nell pointed toward the ditch. “Over there!” she coughed. “It smelled just… awful!” She coughed a few times more before wiping her eyes off. Breathing deeply, she staggered about in small circles, hands on her hips. Finally, she closed her eyes and, holding her breath for a few seconds, exhaled deeply. “I’m all right now,” she concluded.
Kilrik looked toward the ditch. “I’m going to go check it out,” he stated. Nell watched as he stepped into the ditch. The ground sank unpleasantly beneath his boot, squelching in the fetid marsh water. A pungent scent of rotting flesh rose to meet him from the tall grasses lining the ditch. Steeling himself against the aroma, Rik searched the grasses as he walked along the depression. Shortly, a sharp snap came from underfoot. Rik looked down at the broken arrow beneath his boot and parted the next clump of brush.
Within, in order of appearance, were a pair of leather shoes and a skeletal lower leg attached to a bloated thigh rapped in wool, over which crossed a similar leg in an intact woolen pant leg. These were followed by a swollen and broken torso, the chest marked with an excessive number of long-hafted arrows. A rib cage caved around a gaping, moist wound crawling with maggots, and a pair of skeletal arms with bits of still-hanging flesh splayed wildly across the ground. A skull wearing a leather cap grinned at a nearby quiver whose arrows spilled on the ground, their iridescent green flights caked in mud. No bow was to be seen, but a rusting short sword lay trapped under the quiver, pointing toward an iron kite shield laying face down in the marsh.
Kilrik stepped gingerly over the rotting corpse, frowning. Gripping the shaft of an arrow protruding from the body, he pulled, the flesh giving with a foul sigh. Holding the more malodorous end of the arrow away from him, he turned and picked up the shield before rushing back into the road, gasping for fresh air.
As he came up the slope of the road, he held up the arrow, showing Nellehseran the brown flights and the pattern of a broad stripe nestled between two narrow stripes painted on the shaft. “Some poor fellow is down there. Looks like bandits got him some time ago,” he explained.
“Any idea who he was?” Nell asked, worried. “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
Rik threw the arrow back into the ditch before turning over the shield. Mud covered the surface, so Rik set to work on cleaning it off with a few splashes of wine from his wineskin and a rough wool cloth from his satchel. Satisfied, he held up the face of the shield to inspect it.
“Argent a dog sejant Gules over a saltire Or,” he mumbled, pondering. Nell frowned, furrowing her brow.
“What?” she asked when Rik failed to explain. He turned the shield toward her. A red dog sat in profile in front of a large golden X that crossed the silver shield.
“I think this is the coat of arms of the Provincial Guard,” Kilrik clarified. “There’s an office in the next town. If we take it there, they should be able to recognize it and send someone.” Gingerly, Kilrik tugged at the straps meant to hold the shield over the shoulder or on the arm. They crumbled beneath his touch. Kilrik rifled through his satchel with one hand, drawing out a pair of leather straps, eight iron nails and a small hammer. Through both ends of each strap he punched two holes which he lined up just next to the original nail holes in the shield. Pounding the nails in, he replaced his tools in his satchel, held the straps and vigorously shook the whole construction. Satisfied, he threw the shield over his shoulder.
Nell stared at him while he worked. Once he had finished, she grinned at him. “Wow. You’re really prepared!” she exclaimed. “Is there anything you don’t have in that little bag?”
“Oh, it was part of my training to carry the essentials,” Kilrik explained, somewhat evasively. “Speaking of which, let’s find a better spot and have a bite to eat!” Removing themselves a short way up the road, the pair finally lunched on the sturdy breads and cheeses Kilrik carried, washing it down with draughts from his wineskin and talking about everything inconsequential, carefully avoiding the subjects of corpses, pasts, large men with staves and scintillating golden spheres.
Sunset found the pair finally entering the Golden Forest, the thick woods that marked the Eastern edge of the Velindran Province. Surrounded by the close-growing multitude of the forest’s oak trees, the ancient trade road grew narrow, twining its way through the woods. Nellehseran stood closer to Kilrik, glancing about nervously at the dark groves of undergrowth littering the forest floor. Long shadows lent a looming cast to the surroundings in the light of the evening sun, dimmed by the thick forest. The rough surface of the dark trees stood as if in outline in the red light while the heavy upper boughs of the forest took on the appearance of flame.
The pair continued for some time, silent under the guarded cover of the oaks, the stillness broken only by their footsteps and the occasional sounds of forest creatures. Finally, Nell grasped Kilrik’s hand, leaning close to him. “I don’t get it,” she whispered, the pervasive quiet of the forest affecting her. “I thought this was the Golden Forest, but everything is dark and wet and dim.”
“Oh, you’ve never been here?” Kilrik responded with a lowered voice. “The name is just because of the trade road. Back when Halreln traded with Genream over land, this road carried tremendous amounts of wealth. It was probably a little bit nicer back then, though. There are tales of merchants who travelled this road in wonderful caravans, carrying fine goods through…”
Nell nodded as he continued, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she looked around. “Pardon me, but Rik,” she interjected politely after a few moments, “can we stop soon? We’ve been travelling all day, and we really ought to find a nice, safe place to sleep together before nightfall.”
Kilrik blushed at her overt suggestion, turning away. “You mean to camp. Yes, well, there’s a stream coming up. We should be able to camp on the banks.”
True to Kilrik’s word, a small bridge crossed the road after a few minutes of walking. Here, the oppression of the forest’s dim canopy subsided and the slanting rays of the setting sun painted the black trees crimson. The stream’s steady murmur broke through the dead silence of the forest, lending an air of comfort unfelt elsewhere on the long trade road. Kilrik turned off the road, leading Nellehseran along the grassy bank of the little brook, following the water to a small level patch of land secluded by the trees.
“I’m going to get a fire started,” Kilrik said, setting down his satchel and turning toward the forest to collect wood. “There’s nothing like a hot meal after a long day!” he shouted back to Nellehseran, who was climbing down to the stream. She crouched beside the water, smiling at a startled frog that leapt away from her. Cupping her hands, she lifted the clear water to her coral-pink lips, slipping the liquid into her mouth through the thin channel formed between her palms. A trickle escaped down Nell’s chin. She giggled as it tickled her neck, then she wiped her face and neck and looked down into the stream.
In the pure water, small silver fish darted about, plying the current and chasing small insects. Nellehseran watched them swimming, mouth agape in her delight at the dancing delicate forms. A piece of fallen wood came floating downstream, turning gracefully in the eddying flow. The little fish scattered in panic, flitting to the banks as the log passed, then darted back. Nell stood, smiling, and looked back toward where Kilrik was collecting firewood. He had just returned, and was busily sorting the collected timber into tinder, kindling and fuel.
“Rik!” Nell called back to him. “You simply must come observe these little fish! They’re delightful!” Kilrik arched his eyebrow and walked down to the stream. Crouching beside Nell, he watched the fish. Panfish darted about in the stream, swimming between the rocks of the streambed. Nell grabbed his arm with both hands, her eyes fixed on the water. “Aren’t they pretty?” she whispered, pulling his arm toward her a little.
Kilrik smirked in surprise, caught off guard by Nell's excitement at the simple fish. He looked back at the stream, watching the tiny shapes move about one another, scales flashing red in the late sun. Their tiny bodies whipped back and forth, tails working against the current in a rhythmic monotony. “I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess they are,” Kilrik whispered to Nell, still looking at the water. “You know, I think I’ll catch some."
Nell’s face contorted with distress for a moment. Kilrik looked over at her. Her bright green eyes locked with his as she chewed on her lip.
“What, you don’t want me to?” Kilrik asked her.
“No, it’s fine. I just…” she paused. “Well, I suppose there are a lot of fish regardless. I don’t know, I guess it’s just because I know these fish.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, looking off into the woods.
“Okay,” Kilrik said, sympathetically. “What if I move down the stream a bit? You won’t know those fish.”
"I guess that's acceptable," Nell replied, smiling thankfully.
Rik walked downstream a few yards and crouched on the bank. Placing his gauntlets aside, he cupped his hand in the water, holding it steady against the stream bed, for all the world like a hollow log trapped in the sand. Inquisitive fish soon grew accustomed to him, swimming carelessly next to his hand. As one of the panfish finally brushed his palm, he slowly closed his hand, slipping the fish from the water. Swiftly wielding a long belt knife, Kilrik pierced the top of the bream's head, killing it instantly. This he repeated until he had collected four fish. He carried the fish back to the camp by the tails, grasping two in each hand. Using a low rock as a table, he quickly cleaned the fish, tossing their entrails into the woods. Standing, he sliced four green sticks off of a nearby oak, spearing the bream from throat to tail. Piling his collected tinder, he jammed a thick piece of kindling into the ground at an angle, jutting the stick over the tinder. He leaned a small handful of kindling against this support, building an elevated lean-to over the tinder. Finally, he struck a flint from his satchel with his belt knife, the sparks catching in the tinder. As the flames slowly enveloped the kindling, he added small fuelwood to the fire and planted the fish on their spears around the little fire pit.
In short order, Kilrik and Nellehseran were sitting close by the fire, munching on the roasted fish and the hardy cheese and diluted wine Kilrik carried with him. They whiled away the minutes, chatting amiably, until Nell, unused to the wine, giggled, pointing at Kilrik's leg. "I just noticed, you have a wing on your leg!"
Kilrik suddenly grew somber. Nell grabbed his arm, apologetically. "What's wrong?" she asked. "I didn't mean to..."
"No, it's fine," Kilrik interrupted. "It's just... a mark from my past. Like this wing on my sword." He indicated the golden wing stretching from the hilt of his sheathed sword. "But that's all behind me, now," he said, wistfully.
They sat silent for a moment. Kilrik finished his fish, throwing the bones over his shoulder. Leaning back onto his elbows and looking out across the stream, he said, "Nell, I've been curious about something."
"Hmm?" she responded, taking a bite of the fish.
"Why are you running?"
It was Nell's turn to grow somber. After a moment, she sighed. "It's my father. He's always been controlling, but he locked me away when my hair and eyes changed colors."
"Changed colors?"
"Yes, when I was about eleven, I think." She paused for a moment. "I stayed until today because I had no one else. Recently, though, I found a book in his collection, and I learned why he had locked me up. He wanted to..." She inhaled deeply, her voice quivering with rage. "He wanted to Subdue me."
She spoke the word as if it was capitalized. "Subdue?" Rik asked. "What do you mean?"
"Well, he wanted to break me, to control me because-"
A rough baritone echoed from the woods as Kilrik and Nellehseran turned in shock at the sudden looming shadow that fell over them. "Because her gift was meant for me!"
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
As the sun reached the midpoint of its daily journey, Kilrik began to feel a little peckish, but ignored his hunger as he normally did at lunch. Only a few moments passed before he heard a low, squelching groan from beside him. He turned to Nell, who had stopped in the road, blushing and glancing away as she grasped her abdomen. She looked sideways at him, smiling sheepishly. “Do you have any food?” she asked, scrunching up her nose and shrugging her shoulders.
Kilrik chuckled, pulling open his belt satchel as he looked around for a convenient place to eat. “Sorry,” he said, “I normally skip lunch. We’re in a nice, empty part of the road, though, so let’s just eat in the grass.” The stretch of road they were walking lay next to a low hillock rising out of the swamp. The land immediately surrounding this small dry patch was even less suitable for farming than most of the region, sinking in a stinking mire of drowning vegetation. As a result, the area lay uncultivated, the nearest farmers reduced by distance to animated dolls wandering about their toy farms. A small ditch separated the hill from the road, tracing an overgrown line of amber grasses that obscured part of the hill.
As soon as Nellehseran stepped over the small ditch to climb the hill, she stopped, arching her eyebrows. Sniffing the air, she clapped her hand to her face as she bent double, coughing and retching while she stumbled back out into the street. Rik ran over to her, gripping her shoulders in concern.
“What happened?” he asked, pulling her back gently until he could see her face.
Starting to regain her composure, Nell pointed toward the ditch. “Over there!” she coughed. “It smelled just… awful!” She coughed a few times more before wiping her eyes off. Breathing deeply, she staggered about in small circles, hands on her hips. Finally, she closed her eyes and, holding her breath for a few seconds, exhaled deeply. “I’m all right now,” she concluded.
Kilrik looked toward the ditch. “I’m going to go check it out,” he stated. Nell watched as he stepped into the ditch. The ground sank unpleasantly beneath his boot, squelching in the fetid marsh water. A pungent scent of rotting flesh rose to meet him from the tall grasses lining the ditch. Steeling himself against the aroma, Rik searched the grasses as he walked along the depression. Shortly, a sharp snap came from underfoot. Rik looked down at the broken arrow beneath his boot and parted the next clump of brush.
Within, in order of appearance, were a pair of leather shoes and a skeletal lower leg attached to a bloated thigh rapped in wool, over which crossed a similar leg in an intact woolen pant leg. These were followed by a swollen and broken torso, the chest marked with an excessive number of long-hafted arrows. A rib cage caved around a gaping, moist wound crawling with maggots, and a pair of skeletal arms with bits of still-hanging flesh splayed wildly across the ground. A skull wearing a leather cap grinned at a nearby quiver whose arrows spilled on the ground, their iridescent green flights caked in mud. No bow was to be seen, but a rusting short sword lay trapped under the quiver, pointing toward an iron kite shield laying face down in the marsh.
Kilrik stepped gingerly over the rotting corpse, frowning. Gripping the shaft of an arrow protruding from the body, he pulled, the flesh giving with a foul sigh. Holding the more malodorous end of the arrow away from him, he turned and picked up the shield before rushing back into the road, gasping for fresh air.
As he came up the slope of the road, he held up the arrow, showing Nellehseran the brown flights and the pattern of a broad stripe nestled between two narrow stripes painted on the shaft. “Some poor fellow is down there. Looks like bandits got him some time ago,” he explained.
“Any idea who he was?” Nell asked, worried. “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
Rik threw the arrow back into the ditch before turning over the shield. Mud covered the surface, so Rik set to work on cleaning it off with a few splashes of wine from his wineskin and a rough wool cloth from his satchel. Satisfied, he held up the face of the shield to inspect it.
“Argent a dog sejant Gules over a saltire Or,” he mumbled, pondering. Nell frowned, furrowing her brow.
“What?” she asked when Rik failed to explain. He turned the shield toward her. A red dog sat in profile in front of a large golden X that crossed the silver shield.
“I think this is the coat of arms of the Provincial Guard,” Kilrik clarified. “There’s an office in the next town. If we take it there, they should be able to recognize it and send someone.” Gingerly, Kilrik tugged at the straps meant to hold the shield over the shoulder or on the arm. They crumbled beneath his touch. Kilrik rifled through his satchel with one hand, drawing out a pair of leather straps, eight iron nails and a small hammer. Through both ends of each strap he punched two holes which he lined up just next to the original nail holes in the shield. Pounding the nails in, he replaced his tools in his satchel, held the straps and vigorously shook the whole construction. Satisfied, he threw the shield over his shoulder.
Nell stared at him while he worked. Once he had finished, she grinned at him. “Wow. You’re really prepared!” she exclaimed. “Is there anything you don’t have in that little bag?”
“Oh, it was part of my training to carry the essentials,” Kilrik explained, somewhat evasively. “Speaking of which, let’s find a better spot and have a bite to eat!” Removing themselves a short way up the road, the pair finally lunched on the sturdy breads and cheeses Kilrik carried, washing it down with draughts from his wineskin and talking about everything inconsequential, carefully avoiding the subjects of corpses, pasts, large men with staves and scintillating golden spheres.
Sunset found the pair finally entering the Golden Forest, the thick woods that marked the Eastern edge of the Velindran Province. Surrounded by the close-growing multitude of the forest’s oak trees, the ancient trade road grew narrow, twining its way through the woods. Nellehseran stood closer to Kilrik, glancing about nervously at the dark groves of undergrowth littering the forest floor. Long shadows lent a looming cast to the surroundings in the light of the evening sun, dimmed by the thick forest. The rough surface of the dark trees stood as if in outline in the red light while the heavy upper boughs of the forest took on the appearance of flame.
The pair continued for some time, silent under the guarded cover of the oaks, the stillness broken only by their footsteps and the occasional sounds of forest creatures. Finally, Nell grasped Kilrik’s hand, leaning close to him. “I don’t get it,” she whispered, the pervasive quiet of the forest affecting her. “I thought this was the Golden Forest, but everything is dark and wet and dim.”
“Oh, you’ve never been here?” Kilrik responded with a lowered voice. “The name is just because of the trade road. Back when Halreln traded with Genream over land, this road carried tremendous amounts of wealth. It was probably a little bit nicer back then, though. There are tales of merchants who travelled this road in wonderful caravans, carrying fine goods through…”
Nell nodded as he continued, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she looked around. “Pardon me, but Rik,” she interjected politely after a few moments, “can we stop soon? We’ve been travelling all day, and we really ought to find a nice, safe place to sleep together before nightfall.”
Kilrik blushed at her overt suggestion, turning away. “You mean to camp. Yes, well, there’s a stream coming up. We should be able to camp on the banks.”
True to Kilrik’s word, a small bridge crossed the road after a few minutes of walking. Here, the oppression of the forest’s dim canopy subsided and the slanting rays of the setting sun painted the black trees crimson. The stream’s steady murmur broke through the dead silence of the forest, lending an air of comfort unfelt elsewhere on the long trade road. Kilrik turned off the road, leading Nellehseran along the grassy bank of the little brook, following the water to a small level patch of land secluded by the trees.
“I’m going to get a fire started,” Kilrik said, setting down his satchel and turning toward the forest to collect wood. “There’s nothing like a hot meal after a long day!” he shouted back to Nellehseran, who was climbing down to the stream. She crouched beside the water, smiling at a startled frog that leapt away from her. Cupping her hands, she lifted the clear water to her coral-pink lips, slipping the liquid into her mouth through the thin channel formed between her palms. A trickle escaped down Nell’s chin. She giggled as it tickled her neck, then she wiped her face and neck and looked down into the stream.
In the pure water, small silver fish darted about, plying the current and chasing small insects. Nellehseran watched them swimming, mouth agape in her delight at the dancing delicate forms. A piece of fallen wood came floating downstream, turning gracefully in the eddying flow. The little fish scattered in panic, flitting to the banks as the log passed, then darted back. Nell stood, smiling, and looked back toward where Kilrik was collecting firewood. He had just returned, and was busily sorting the collected timber into tinder, kindling and fuel.
“Rik!” Nell called back to him. “You simply must come observe these little fish! They’re delightful!” Kilrik arched his eyebrow and walked down to the stream. Crouching beside Nell, he watched the fish. Panfish darted about in the stream, swimming between the rocks of the streambed. Nell grabbed his arm with both hands, her eyes fixed on the water. “Aren’t they pretty?” she whispered, pulling his arm toward her a little.
Kilrik smirked in surprise, caught off guard by Nell's excitement at the simple fish. He looked back at the stream, watching the tiny shapes move about one another, scales flashing red in the late sun. Their tiny bodies whipped back and forth, tails working against the current in a rhythmic monotony. “I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess they are,” Kilrik whispered to Nell, still looking at the water. “You know, I think I’ll catch some."
Nell’s face contorted with distress for a moment. Kilrik looked over at her. Her bright green eyes locked with his as she chewed on her lip.
“What, you don’t want me to?” Kilrik asked her.
“No, it’s fine. I just…” she paused. “Well, I suppose there are a lot of fish regardless. I don’t know, I guess it’s just because I know these fish.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, looking off into the woods.
“Okay,” Kilrik said, sympathetically. “What if I move down the stream a bit? You won’t know those fish.”
"I guess that's acceptable," Nell replied, smiling thankfully.
Rik walked downstream a few yards and crouched on the bank. Placing his gauntlets aside, he cupped his hand in the water, holding it steady against the stream bed, for all the world like a hollow log trapped in the sand. Inquisitive fish soon grew accustomed to him, swimming carelessly next to his hand. As one of the panfish finally brushed his palm, he slowly closed his hand, slipping the fish from the water. Swiftly wielding a long belt knife, Kilrik pierced the top of the bream's head, killing it instantly. This he repeated until he had collected four fish. He carried the fish back to the camp by the tails, grasping two in each hand. Using a low rock as a table, he quickly cleaned the fish, tossing their entrails into the woods. Standing, he sliced four green sticks off of a nearby oak, spearing the bream from throat to tail. Piling his collected tinder, he jammed a thick piece of kindling into the ground at an angle, jutting the stick over the tinder. He leaned a small handful of kindling against this support, building an elevated lean-to over the tinder. Finally, he struck a flint from his satchel with his belt knife, the sparks catching in the tinder. As the flames slowly enveloped the kindling, he added small fuelwood to the fire and planted the fish on their spears around the little fire pit.
In short order, Kilrik and Nellehseran were sitting close by the fire, munching on the roasted fish and the hardy cheese and diluted wine Kilrik carried with him. They whiled away the minutes, chatting amiably, until Nell, unused to the wine, giggled, pointing at Kilrik's leg. "I just noticed, you have a wing on your leg!"
Kilrik suddenly grew somber. Nell grabbed his arm, apologetically. "What's wrong?" she asked. "I didn't mean to..."
"No, it's fine," Kilrik interrupted. "It's just... a mark from my past. Like this wing on my sword." He indicated the golden wing stretching from the hilt of his sheathed sword. "But that's all behind me, now," he said, wistfully.
They sat silent for a moment. Kilrik finished his fish, throwing the bones over his shoulder. Leaning back onto his elbows and looking out across the stream, he said, "Nell, I've been curious about something."
"Hmm?" she responded, taking a bite of the fish.
"Why are you running?"
It was Nell's turn to grow somber. After a moment, she sighed. "It's my father. He's always been controlling, but he locked me away when my hair and eyes changed colors."
"Changed colors?"
"Yes, when I was about eleven, I think." She paused for a moment. "I stayed until today because I had no one else. Recently, though, I found a book in his collection, and I learned why he had locked me up. He wanted to..." She inhaled deeply, her voice quivering with rage. "He wanted to Subdue me."
She spoke the word as if it was capitalized. "Subdue?" Rik asked. "What do you mean?"
"Well, he wanted to break me, to control me because-"
A rough baritone echoed from the woods as Kilrik and Nellehseran turned in shock at the sudden looming shadow that fell over them. "Because her gift was meant for me!"
By my hand,
~Michael Akerman
Monday, November 10, 2008
Angel Arisen, Chapter One
One thousand one hundred and thirty years after the founding of the Delssian Empire by the Unifier Artemis Dels, tales of the dark connections forged by his distant descendants slipped out of the capital at Dellis. Word of demonic advisors solidified long-brewing suspicions about the increasing prevalence of depression and psychotic episodes among the Imperial citizens and ignited a hidden powder keg of rebellious desires among many small but influential groups in the Imperial Provinces. A movement for secession swept inward, beginning as the rumblings of the destitute in the border provinces, gaining momentum among the upper class who hungered for power in the merchant provinces of Tantary, Bruglius and Jho'ahan, and becoming, finally, an armed and unified revolution as entire fortresses began defecting from under the very nose of the Imperial forces centered at Dellis. The resulting War of Dissolution plumbed the depths of the demonic pacts the Dels family had formed through their long dynasty. Horrid advisors stood on the Imperial Counsel while massive beasts, fiends born of fire and earth and iron, stood against the armies of the rebels.
Heroes arose: brave men found within themselves, variously, talents for command, extraordinary martial skill, a silvered tongue to inspire the populace, or knacks for sabotage and subterfuge. The names of these men were emblazoned in the hearts of the people, songs written to praise them, sculptures and paintings and stories crafted to immortalize them. I am proud to say that my brother stood among them! Both of us served, soldiers against the vile forces, but I was nothing compared to him. Allan Grint strode the battlefield like a colossus, his massive claymore cleaving demons like so much wheat. He was a match for demons that easily decimated whole waves of men. He finally fell at the concluding battle of the war, fighting on the steps of the Imperial Palace, when a fel Captain drove forward through the pair of brutes Allan was battling. The demon's arm, ending in a glistening iron spike, pierced my brother's body. With an echoing roar, he struck, cutting the arm from his foe's body. With the spike still protruding from his abdomen, he fought on, slaying four more demonic Captains before succumbing.
I watched him fall, heard the cries of anguish and fear from my brethren around me, and felt the surge of hatred and determination that sprang newborn through our forces. We pressed forward, racing up the steps in our bloodlust. I was on the front line as we crashed into the throne room, where the Emperor stood hunched, twisted, huge and dark against the light of the stained window behind him as he called, in a final desperate attempt, on his dark allies. As his body contorted, his skin blackening, shriveling, splitting, a steely resolve settled in me. My comrades watched in horror; I walked forward, my face a mask of determination, driving my blade deep into his heart, pressing close to him as his eyes erupted in a red, hate-filled glow. As his blood spilled over my hand, my muscles spasmed, my fingers clenching the hilt of my dagger. Everywhere his demon-blood touched, I lost all feeling. By the next day, my hand had become like stone, my sword permanently gripped. The blacksmith broke the blade from the hilt, so I wouldn't accidentally hurt anyone, but the hilt remained fast in my grip. I decided that it was fitting: though I wasn't the warrior my brother was, I could honor his memory by always carrying the weapon which achieved that which he had sought for so long.
The year was 1134 After the Founding. The War of Dissolution had lasted nearly four years. The Star and Diamonds of the Imperial Crest had fallen from the world and new nations had sprung up, headed by the victorious leaders of the War. For the heroes of the war, their time of glory passed, their heroic tales ended with the sundering of the Delssian Empire.
My story had just begun.
~Michael Akerman
Heroes arose: brave men found within themselves, variously, talents for command, extraordinary martial skill, a silvered tongue to inspire the populace, or knacks for sabotage and subterfuge. The names of these men were emblazoned in the hearts of the people, songs written to praise them, sculptures and paintings and stories crafted to immortalize them. I am proud to say that my brother stood among them! Both of us served, soldiers against the vile forces, but I was nothing compared to him. Allan Grint strode the battlefield like a colossus, his massive claymore cleaving demons like so much wheat. He was a match for demons that easily decimated whole waves of men. He finally fell at the concluding battle of the war, fighting on the steps of the Imperial Palace, when a fel Captain drove forward through the pair of brutes Allan was battling. The demon's arm, ending in a glistening iron spike, pierced my brother's body. With an echoing roar, he struck, cutting the arm from his foe's body. With the spike still protruding from his abdomen, he fought on, slaying four more demonic Captains before succumbing.
I watched him fall, heard the cries of anguish and fear from my brethren around me, and felt the surge of hatred and determination that sprang newborn through our forces. We pressed forward, racing up the steps in our bloodlust. I was on the front line as we crashed into the throne room, where the Emperor stood hunched, twisted, huge and dark against the light of the stained window behind him as he called, in a final desperate attempt, on his dark allies. As his body contorted, his skin blackening, shriveling, splitting, a steely resolve settled in me. My comrades watched in horror; I walked forward, my face a mask of determination, driving my blade deep into his heart, pressing close to him as his eyes erupted in a red, hate-filled glow. As his blood spilled over my hand, my muscles spasmed, my fingers clenching the hilt of my dagger. Everywhere his demon-blood touched, I lost all feeling. By the next day, my hand had become like stone, my sword permanently gripped. The blacksmith broke the blade from the hilt, so I wouldn't accidentally hurt anyone, but the hilt remained fast in my grip. I decided that it was fitting: though I wasn't the warrior my brother was, I could honor his memory by always carrying the weapon which achieved that which he had sought for so long.
The year was 1134 After the Founding. The War of Dissolution had lasted nearly four years. The Star and Diamonds of the Imperial Crest had fallen from the world and new nations had sprung up, headed by the victorious leaders of the War. For the heroes of the war, their time of glory passed, their heroic tales ended with the sundering of the Delssian Empire.
My story had just begun.
~Michael Akerman
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