Magic Most Foul: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The journey of a lot of steps starts with something

Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to be a hero of the realm. Wherever greedy dragons polluted the land and goblins attacked poor families, that’s where I wanted to be. I spent many years of honorable service rising through the ranks. I became a young knight, hoping for the opportunity to prove my loyalty and braveary. Maybe even my willingness to give up my life for others. Instead I found myself in a place called Red Sun, named after a particularly beautiful sunrise that the original settlers saw. Considering that’s the most exciting story to come out of this little village, it can get a little stagnant at times, but I learned to appreciate it. That was until some idiot decided to move into some ruins and start making it everyone else’s problems.

You see, depending on who you ask, magic and how it came about is still a major point of contention. Trying to get a straight answer out of the fae folk or any race that claims magical origins will get you thousands of stories before you get one honest person who says “I don’t know. The magic tree thing seems to make sense though.” Elves, sprites, faeries, gnomes, dwarves, spirits, ghouls, ghosts, goblins,  you name it, all kinds of origins for all kinds of stories. 

My personal belief is that the church and priest I see on Sundays is right, that with the bite of an apple that brought the downfall of man, so too did the knowledge of magic come with the realization they were naked. Then after all that everything else kinda happened. Heck, with how many different creatures can be relegated to the created-in-an-ancient-land-and-escaped, makes me think maybe everyone was human before deciding to use the magic found in the trees or water or whatever to become their own creation. That would explain why so many different creatures from those stories end up being all bitey and lacking anything close to humanity. However at least the wood elves share their apples with the town.

Our little hamlet homes many magical folk too. Between the little bazaar full of odds and ends from the nearby woodlands or the inn that served as the only local tavern, it wasn’t odd to hear a gnome miner complaining to a Dwarf banker over a delinquent mortgage or even the more behaved lizardfolk that came selling all kinds of admittedly well crafted bone jewelry, weapons, clothing, etc. Of course that also meant that the odd troll sometimes would wander into town because of a disease, hunger, or just feeling a kind of way that the town's people didn’t drop enough trash off of Refuse Cliff towards Garbage Cave, their chosen home. 

All this is to explain that this book is meant as a place to explain why although we as knights have vowed off the use of magic, some spells may be necessary to hunt down the rogue ones. Magic isn’t some play thing we can keep casting aside; it’s a dangerous thing that must be planned against. If not because of the obvious lack of limits, but because people themselves are prone to poor decisions. You’re saying that out of all the fireballs, all the swarms of pick-any-flying-insect, all the death and destruction, everyone who calls themselves an archmage at best or necromancer at worst, they could’ve chosen to use this power for taking care of others, but instead came up with five more horrible ways to make people die? Not like the rest of us wouldn’t figure something else out eventually, but all it takes is a wizard getting his feelings hurt and now everyone gets to have a bad day.

This particular trial all started on a normal Tuesday, with an abnormally large troll wandering into town. The market had already been emptied and other than the shouts and cries of fear, nothing was amiss. The main problem was that instead of going for food this time, the troll was currently causing a scene in a magic store of all places. I must’ve been in a good mood, since instead of just severing the arms and legs, putting them in a bag, and sending the big guy back over the cliff to get himself together and act right, I tried asking what was the problem first. He wasn’t destroying anything yet, and seemed to be waiting patiently to my surprise. 

“Hey there, big guy! What seems to be the issue? You aren’t planning on eating a magic man are you?” I said, not yet drawing my sword but the grip was in hand. 

“No, I need the magic man. Ate something bad.” The troll groaned and clutched his stomach. I could see a faint shape poking and wriggling around within, then the shape of a hand pressed the skin taut from within.

After I swallowed my disgust, not at the troll, although he was admittedly a little musty, I asked “Are you sure this isn’t some kind of new spawn?”

“Do I look like a female troll to you?” The poor creature said in between bouts of howling pain.

“I didn’t say that, but I’m not exactly a troll expert either! I’ve read about creatures called seahorses, right? So the male-” His roars of pain cut me off. “The point is that I’ve read many things, and none of them explained what a normal troll birth looks like.”

Behind the counter, a curtain billowed out of the way and revealed the magical owner of the shop. As is the usual case, he had his big pointy hat and long flowing robes that were made out of some kind of material that changes colors depending on the angle you look at it. You know, the usual showy, magic-y stuff. Even the gloves and scarf that hid everything but his long flowing hair and piercing eyes looked magical, but not too gaudy like others I had seen. I’ve had the disdain of putting my eyes upon wizards that wear gems that would blind you just to be around. Our magic person however held a couple different concoctions and potions, and seemed surprised that we were there.

When I saw the look on his face I asked “Did you not know we were here or something? I’m sure that sheet isn’t that good at muffling our voices!” It was hard to even speak over the poor giant’s blubbering.

“I was in the far back.” the wizard said, as if that answered anything. 

The poor beast’s screams cut off any thought I was having outside of fixing the problem at hand. The magical oddities store owner started laying out flasks of all shapes, and were filled with every color imaginable. Including some really ugly ones. 

He took a knee next to his odd patient and asked, “Can you explain to me where the pain is located?” The troll howled and the hand made another imprint through the skin. It must’ve thought I wasn’t getting squeamish enough so it started moving its fingers back and forth, like an adventurer trying to press its way out of a slime. 

“Alright, I can’t concentrate. Cut his head off.”

“What?” 

“He’s in pain and I need to be able to work. Don’t worry, it’ll go right back after a second or two.”

I hesitated, but eventually gave in to the grave demands and pulled my sword. It wasn’t the first time I had to draw a sword on a troll, but this was different. It felt like I was attacking a bear that was missing its claws and teeth.

I patted him on the shoulder and got him to calm down so he could hear me. “Hey big guy, try to hold your chin back. I’m not trying to clip anything that doesn’t need to be cut.”

As I raised my sword he made a little whimper, but complied. Big, dumb, lummox looked so sad, then just relieved. As his head rolled away I grabbed it and held it still. He was still gasping for air, like a fish out of water. The wizard took some ichor that was spilling out and collected it in another flask, before taking out another potion that had the color of rusty nails. He dripped a little on the headless stump, and waited. Then the worst happened; a finger started poking through the neck hole. Then two. Then everything popped out up to the wrist. 

The wizards waved his hand, acting as if this was business as usual, and an unseen force pulled it the rest of the way out of the stomach and was tossed into the corner where it was promptly hit with a bolt of lightning. With all the excitement, I almost forgot my cautiousness against magic. The troll looked up at me patiently, and made me remember that I was holding a living head. Funny how the weirdest things go unnoticed if they just stay quiet…

Anyway, I realized the troll might not enjoy being disembodied and tried to rush whatever the wizard was doing “I’m not an expert of any kind, but wouldn’t fire work better?” I covered my mouth and nose to try and protect myself from the stench emanating from the wound. The smell of an electrified evil hand and the stomach contents of a not-so-picky-eater made for hard breathing. 

The wizard used his wand to poke at everything within reach, studied the wound, made his way over to the hand in the corner, and concluded, “be sure to chew your food thoroughly next time,” and motioned to put the head back where it came from. Instantly the wound was closing around the neck and after only a moment the troll was able to take a big breath.

With the wound close, the troll got up and started walking out. “Wait,” I called out, “You sure you’re ok? That was quite the nasty little event.”

“Yes, I’m good. Thank you for not killing me.” He started to lumber off again.

“Kill you, why would we do that?”

“People don’t often allow trolls to walk around without attacking us.” He said.

I chuckled, since it was technically true, however, “Most often trolls aren’t exactly here to peacefully go about their business too.”

“Fair.” He shifted his attention to “I owe you, magic man. I won’t forget.” 

“Oh, no need for that. You’ve given me something to do for the day,” He extended his hand and jangled a vial of his blood, “If you have any more problems like this one, you can count on the Sorcerer Solomon!”

The troll took the hand in his oversized claws and shook. “I am Chief Grool. Good bye.” and he was gone. Other than the gore that was splattered on a few nearby things, it went a lot cleaner than I had expected. Usually when a troll is looking for something it’s because it’s hungry. I would’ve taken more time to sit there and wonder what brought Grool into town, but decided that it was more worth my time to focus on the hand that was still wiggling in the corner. 

I began to pull my sword and asked, “are you going to need some help with that?”

Solomon pointed his wand at it and the hand began to float, wiggling around like a bug caught in an invisible web it wasn’t going to escape. He made his way towards the counter and shook his head. “No, not at the moment any way sir…?”

“Sir Knight Simon West, but most people just call me Simon.”

“Hm, a humble knight errant. Got any quests or tasks that currently have your attention?”

I chuckled at the flowery words. “I’m no such thing, just a man looking to help while I wander, and this town has plenty of small issues that need a little help.” The response was equally elegant, but the words dripped with sarcasm as they left my lips. The truth was I didn’t have much going on, and it wasn’t like my lord had any pressing business for me to attend to . What I did know is that I didn’t get knighted just to sit in a castle playing with my swords. The world wasn’t safe enough yet for such niceties, or at least my body was not yet broken.

“Regardless, it looks like you might have something of note to deal with soon.” Solomon said without looking up from the arm he was poking.

“How’s that?”

“Limbs don’t crawl around unless they are attached to something. So, either this is just a little wandering experiment, or it’s indicative or a bigger problem that won’t easily go away.” 

“Great,” I replied, “another idiot who read one too many books and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem.”

If he was annoyed by the comment he didn’t show it. “It can’t be that bad! Although, I guess you would end up dealing with the worst of the rabble that can’t understand why forbidden means forbidden.” 

“That’s the problem! In a world where anyone can decide to learn how to create tonics or learn new and exciting ways to advance the world using all this magic we can’t seem to get away from, there are too many people who have decided that raising an undead army or summoning a legion of elementals was the best use for such a tool.” It was something I was quite annoyed by even at that moment.

Solomon shook his head again, this time at me. “For me, magic is as integral to who I am as a hammer is to a smith. It’s how I create my best work.”

“I wish everyone thought like that. Do you need me to do something to help discern just how much trouble is coming my way?” I was feeling quite useless standing there.

“If it’s what it seems, we will be in a lot of trouble. Regardless of what I think it’s always smart to check with an expert in unholy magics first, of course.”

“Oh yes of course! Would hate to mix up our ghouls, zombies, and revenants.” I meant that in a half joking manner, but trying to use the wrong tool on the wrong beast is a sure way to get it thrown back at your face. Or through your chest. Whichever happens first really. Solomon shot me a look though, so I finished up giggling at myself before actually contributing to the conversation. “Where are we supposed to find such a person? Red Sun isn’t exactly oozing with magical talent, nefarious or otherwise."

 “True, but every town has a church. Do you know anyone who is required to be as well read as a priest on such matters?” He smirked at the irony. “Take this small sample and take it to the local holy man. He should be more than capable in the capacity to check my work and make sure I haven’t made an erroneous diagnosis.”

“Sounds good to me! Be back in a moment.” And with a small vial containing a piece of undead flesh, I was off. It wasn't like I had much else to do other than sit around somewhere else, and who knew, maybe he was wrong! Maybe magic tomfoolery wasn’t going to be a humongous problem for once. And maybe I wasn’t going to get an ear full for missing Sunday's sermon…

…

“Samson! I didn’t see you Sunday, I was worried!” Father McConnell called from the top of the steps. He always seemed to be in a cheerful mood, and out of all the hypocrites and rules loyalists, he wasn’t one of them. I appreciated that about him. Many others in his position often missed the point of the book they preach from and stopped being servants to their fellow man, but not McConnell. He was an old Irish man who treated the world like everyone was another adoptive son or daughter.

“Sorry to worry you father was busy that day sadly.” I called back to him as I ascended the holy steps.

He chuckled until I was in range for him to just whisper, “Busy sleeping in I bet.”

I didn’t even try to argue with him. “Sadly though, I’m not here on holy business,” I held out the vial to show the squirming mass, “I was sent by a sorcerer named Solomon. He thinks this little piece of rotten flesh raises a cause for alarm. So he’s asked for an expert in the unholy to give an opinion.” I smirked at him a little, knowing my words would rub him the wrong way. Even clergymen need to be given a hard time sometimes, if for no other reason than to keep us all humble.

“I’m not an expert, but I can divine the nature of our troubles well enough.” He took the vial in his hand, and turned it over and over. He whispered something to it, and it started smoking. “Great, and where did this piece of flesh come from?”

I looked at him surprised, “How did you know it was flesh?”

“Because the Church has many defenses against many evil creations. One of the more understood enemies is the undead, which can easily be dispatched with a holy incant or two.” Father McConnell handed back the vial that had filled with smoke, “however that piece took a little bit more effort than just a simple prayer to dispatch. What did it come from?”

“A hand, which still had a wrist and a few inches of forearm still attached.”

“Figures. I guess that means I better have a talk with this sorcerer. I need a moment to grab some things from inside.” He disappeared before I could answer. I had assumed he wanted to come with me to talk in more depth than I could carry back to Solomon.

After a short while, the father walked back out in his walk-around garb and giant sun hat. He carried with him a nice quarterstaff he used as a walking stick, and I remember thinking it odd that he had a pack on. Before I could ask anything, he spurred me forward down the stairs after him, into the street. It was a simple dirt road that connected the buildings together, but wasn’t much more advanced than a well trodden goat-path. We passed by all the same places I had just passed by a little bit ago, and made our way back into the heart of the marketplace. 

Father McConnell spoke pleasantly, saying “What a wonderful day to get out and about! If it wasn’t for this little bit of darkness brewing, I’d still be standing on those steps waving at everyone else enjoying the day.”

“Nice to put those legs to use, eh?”

“And arms, and head for that matter.” He smirked.

“Oh come on now! I’m sure there is plenty of fun to be had spending all day amongst the dusty rooms and tombs and tomes!” I jested.

He gave me a serious stare, “It would be more fun gathering the research than reading about it. After you read about the tenth or twentieth creature whose entire goals boil down to ‘eat people,’ it gets dreadfully boring.”

“Like trolls?” I said hoping to bait him into saying something he would immediately regret after I told him about Grool.

“I meant the more nefarious denizens that are trying to sate more than just hunger, but trolls are quite the fascinating subject to read on.”

“In what way?”

“They’re a magical creature that works on a basic set of instincts, but are intelligent enough to have tribes and chieftains. Between them and elves, the common theory is that they are just another corrupted string of humans that can’t remember what created them.” He sounded spaced out. The rote dogma didn’t seem to interest him much.

I tried to dig a little bit, “What about you? What do you think happened?”

He sighed, “the more you read, the more you realize the only person who knows anything at all isn’t coming back until the very end.” 

Another honest answer as always, I remember thinking. I considered myself well-read enough compared to many of my own comrades, but in a world where the only people allowed to read everything and anything was the Church, I was a mere fool. God’s servants were tasked, as he put it, to read everything and decide whether it deserved to exist. We never had a book burning in our town of course, Father McConnell never called for one, preferring to lock such materials away. I don’t think he would’ve locked any away if it wasn’t for the whole summoning monsters on a good day and consorting with demons on a bad day.

We arrived at Solomon’s emporium of bad ideas, and found Solomon still openly messing with an undead hand on the front counter. Were we one of the more zealous hamlets, he would’ve probably been executed on the spot, but the padre had a different plan.

“Ohhhhh,” he could barely hide his disdain for the severed limb, “it’s one of those, huh?”

“So we agree?”

“If you’re thinking of a Murderer's Hand, then yes we are in agreement.” Father McConnell held a sleeve up to his nose.

“It doesn’t smell that bad does it?” Solomon jeered.

Unphased by the sorcerer’s condescending tone, he answered “The taint of evil coming off that foul thing fills me with a deep desire to bathe it in radiant light, but that would ruin our only way of finding what woke this horrid abomination up.” I had never heard the father speak like he was five seconds away from delivering a fire and brimstone type sermon, but he was a very good priest after all. I wondered how such a holy man tolerated an unholy land for so long.

“What is it?” I finally interjected.

“It’s the hand of a murderer, just as the name implies.” Solomon tried the sarcastic tone again but my face told him to reconsider. “Okay that part is obvious, but this specific specimen raised itself!”

“Like Je-?” I started to say before I felt an oddly strong fist smack my chest. The father had struck me with the back of his hand to stop me from saying something stupid.

“No, not like our Savior at all son. The blood these hands have shed infuses the body part itself with dark energies, unholy magic the church would say." His voice turned all academic for a second and looked Solomon in the eyes like scholars do, “It’s actually how we can use certain rituals to varying degrees of success to sift out suspected criminals.” 

Solomon continued as if both were giving me a lecture on an important subject, “The summoning of a large amount of undead can lead to even stronger, unholy creatures getting attracted to the source, which is why you end up with so much evil garbage in forgotten ruins and derelict castles. Even ancient artifacts with forgotten histories can suddenly awaken themselves and next thing you know-”

“-you get evil hands that crawl on their own.” McConnell added.

I rubbed my chest, thinking for the first time about how I’ve never actually seen what is hiding beneath that man’s sleeves. “Okay good to go, so now what?”

“Now you go grab your equipment, maybe find ourselves a guide, and we should take care of this immediately.” Solomon was packing as he gave the order.

“Wouldn’t it be better to leave in the morning?”

The priest tightened his grip around his staff, “the Lord willing, we might be able to bump into a few things that would be better dealt with in the forest than wherever the hand was going off to gather.” I’d worked with Father McConnell on a few excursions. He really didn’t like what he deemed unholy, which was anything that would bring harm to anyone in town, human or otherwise. 

“Well, then, I’ll be off and get my things!” I’ve never seen that man do anything but smile. If it was serious enough to leave in the middle of the night, and serious enough that the priest was packed and ready to go just from looking at a small chunk of meat, I didn’t need much more of an explanation. I would retrieve my things from the guardhouse, and pick up an old friend from the tavern. There was an old Dwarf bounty hunter I’d need to have a drink and a chat with before we could set off.

Thank you so much for reading this chapeter of my book, coming out on the 30th! Please do me a favor, and follow the pages and let me know what you think about this first chapter. Please do be aware that this entire things is a one man venture, so any kind of constructive feedback would be amazing, even to the nitpicks got I missed while proofreading. Thank you again and I hope you all get a chance to read "Magic Most Foul" coming at the end of this month.

Magic Most Foul: What to expect this Friday!

     This is going to be a short one, since I am currently grinding and working to try and finish what I think is an acceptable word count. This also includes all the work of revising and editing that takes its own toll on time. So, the plan is to have the first chapter released, and the last day of the month the 30th is when the book will be available for sale. I want to give everyone that possibly could be interested in the first book of this series a chance to speak up for what would make the book more accessible. I hope to have both a kindle version and a paperback version ready for sale, but if I had to focus on one first, what do y'all think it should be? If you didn't do the poll on the other social media posts, let me know below! I plan on a crisp 30,000 words for this book, since it is supposed to act as a bedrock, so to speak. I want this first adventure to get the appetite working for future books. At its core, this setting takes advantage of the fact that fantasy and magic isn't unheard of, and an undead horde showing up is way more tried and true than many would believe. It's a familiar concept used in everything from video games to movies. But, I want many of these creatures and even medieval knights to approach magic to be more than just destroying everything they don't understand. I also want to go to one to write all kinds of books set in other exotic locations that fantasy doesn't often touch, or other genres that just don't like using magic realism for one reason or another. 

     That all being said, please stay tuned for future posts and let me know, how do y'all enjoy reading?

The Wailing Legionnaire

The Wailing Legionnaire

By Geordan Ashford

     In a small village on the coast of the Mediterranean, there lived an old Legionnaire named Marcellus. Many in the village blamed the years he spent serving Rome as the reason that he was “marked by Mars.” He couldn’t stand to have any work done on the land given to him, as he would focus for days and weeks making sure even the tiniest detail on a plank of wood was correct. By the time the first board of his house was up to his standards, he would fall into a depressive stupor, destroying the entire project and giving up on the very thing that he spent months obsessing over. 
     To protect the village from himself and vice versa, he went down to the beaches that were still apart of the land he owned and made his home in a cave. The villagers all believed that the cave led straight to Pluto, and at night they could hear Marcellus wailing, calling unknown men to arms against an enemy they figured was long dead. 
     The only person who would come to see Marcellus was Titus, a young orphan who no one wanted and was constantly in trouble. One day, he appeared in the village after his home was destroyed by a Cyclops, and without parents he found refuge in a thrown together shack he haphazardly built on Marcellus’ land. With the villagers scared to step foot near Marcellus, and Titus unable to protect himself from the bigger kids, it was the safest place for him. He would go down to the cave, bringing with him the fish he caught and alcohol he stole to bribe Marcellus to tell him stories of the past. Marcellus would tell him about growing up and his parents, and what life was like before and during his time as a legionnaire, but never spoke of battle and war. This would usually annoy Titus, who would pester Marcellus about more exciting tales. 
     “Marcellus, can’t you tell me about the great battles you fought?” Titus would say.
Marcellus would shake his head, “No, no, I shall not. None of those battles seem so great now, and it would only bring back memories I would like to leave behind.”
     “Oh, come now old man. I’m sure that if the sword over there and your helmet and your shield and your armor could talk, they would tell me much more interesting things than what you tell me!”
     “If they had any respect for the one who once used them, they would lay there and stay quiet.”
     Fed up with this usual back and forth, Titus went into town and stumbled upon a group of Roman soldiers that were passing through on their way to their new station. Titus then got an idea. Maybe they knew Marcellus and they would tell him about his past! In fact, one of the men wore the helm of a legionnaire. He must have served with Marcellus! As Titus approached them, he overheard them speaking to the blacksmith that was repairing one of their spears. 
     “It has been a while since we have seen any soldiers in these parts.” The blacksmith said. “In fact, the only person in town we have who has ever served as you do is old Marcellus.”
     The legionnaire looked stunned. “Marcellus? Is he about this tall and bears a scar on his right cheek?” The legionnaire held his hand about where his eyebrows were.
     “I’m not sure how tall he is, but I am sure he bears the same scar you speak of. Got quite a good look at it while he screamed at me about how I make my swords.”
     The legionnaire laughed, “Yes, that sounds like the man. In the later years of his service, he became overly precise about everything. A great quality to have when serving Rome, but terrible when dealing with its citizens.”
     Titus suddenly came out of hiding. “I know Marcellus! I could take you to him if you wanted to see him!” 
     The legionnaire tried to decline, but the boy’s excitement overtook him, and he followed Titus to where Marcellus stayed. As they walked along the beach, Titus asked him questions. 
     “Sir, did you serve with Marcellus?”
     “Yes, I sure did. He trained me into the man I am today.” He said proudly from atop his horse. 
     “Did you fight alongside him?”
     “No, no one fought alongside Marcellus.”
     Titus was confused. “Why? Did he not fall in line with the other soldiers and hold the formations all the soldiers learn?”
     The legionnaire stared into the distance, as if he was watching something that wasn’t there. “Marcellus lost too many of his brothers, and yet he was never killed. He figured he was cursed to be the only man to survive most of his battles. One day, he decided he would test the gods themselves, and before any of us could stop him, he rode to the enemy camp and threw himself at them.”
     Titus stared in disbelief. “What happened?”
     “Obviously he survived.” The legionnaire said sarcastically. “The enemy camp wasn’t so lucky. When we had finally gotten the nerve to go retrieve what we were sure was going to be his remains, we found him sitting in the middle of the camp, the only living soul, sobbing.” The legionnaire finally broke his gaze from the vision and looked down at Titus.
     “Why was he crying? Was he not happy to claim victory?” Titus said.
     “He blames himself for as those who fell beside him. If he's an unkillable human siege weapon, no one should die anymore, right?”
     Titus looked at the ground sheepishly. “So, is that why he left?”
     “No. In fact, that became our commander’s favorite tactic. He would have the archers rain arrows upon the enemy, and once they had fallen back to their camp for shelter, he would send in Marcellus.”
     Titus was suddenly excited again. “I’m sure Marcellus was honored with such a responsibility.”
     “No, he was usually quite upset by the time he was allowed to cross the battlefield.”
     “Why?”
     “Because he was enraged that he wasn’t sent sooner.”
     When they had made it to the cave, Marcellus was outside watching Sol set. As Titus called to him to look at who he had brought, Marcellus’ eyes went wide. Before the legionnaire could climb down from his horse, Marcellus was upon him with tears in his eyes, hugging and laughing with his old friend.
     “Marcus! My dear brother! What brings you here of all places?” Tears of joy freely flowed down his cheeks into his scraggly beard.
     Marcus couldn’t help but become misty eyed himself. “This boy they call Titus brought me here. He thought I might want to see an old friend.”
     As they turned to go inside the cave, Marcellus paused to look at Titus.
     “I’m sorry Titus, but I must speak with Marcus in private. I will call you in as soon as we are done speaking.”
     Titus of course waited outside by the opening of the cave, quite angry with Marcellus. He was the one who brought this Marcus to him, why couldn’t he be there the whole time? However, he soon forgot his anger as he heard glimpses of their conversation. Old battles were remembered, laughs were had, and tears were shed. Suddenly, Marcus turned serious in the middle of their reminiscing.
     “Marcellus, it isn’t good to live here like this. You're a hero to Rome! You shouldn’t be living in a cave away from what is rightfully yours.”
     Marcellus gulped down the rest of his wine and sighed. “I know you are right, but it’s not all that bad. I was scaring the village people as is.” 
     “So? You earned the right to be a bit crazed. You are Marcellus, the one blessed by Mars! The one they still tell legends of how you were raised by the Wolf Mother herself!” Marcus became so excited that he spilt some of his wine gesturing to the whole world that couldn’t see them. “Yet you spend all your time in a cave with nothing more than the company of an orphaned boy.”
     “Watch yourself Marcus. I don’t know what evil things the people in the village think, but Titus is a good young man. To be quite honest, I would have starved out here if it wasn’t for him taking care of me. He’s a good boy, regardless of the trouble he gets himself into.”
     Marcus sat back down, understanding he crossed his dear friend. “I meant no harm by it, and regardless, that doesn’t change the fact that a living myth should be here as a hermit bound to a cave.”
     “You know those stories to be false. You have met my parents and neither of them look anything like a wolf.” Marcellus chuckled before turning grave. “You know, I still see them in my dreams, Marcus.”
     “Who, dear brother? Your parents? Your enemies?”
     “No, they started looking the same after a while. I speak of our brothers, the ones I couldn’t save from the underworld. When I sleep, the gods taunt me with their visage.” Marcellus poured himself another cup of wine before swallowing it all in one motion.
     “Don’t worry dear brother,” Marcus consoled Marcellus while moving the wine away from him, “We will all see them soon enough.”
     As Marcus was leaving, since Marcellus had fallen asleep happily and full of wine, he was surprised to see the young boy gone. He thought that Titus would've stayed, but paid it no mind and rode off to rejoin his unit. Titus, however, heard all this and got an idea. 
     Over the next few days Titus gathered enough food for a small feast and enough wine to put a horse down for a week. He eventually convinced Marcellus to leave the cave and all his old legionnaire equipment and come eat with him in the shack he had built. It was hardly big enough for the grown man and the boy to occupy at the same time, but Marcellus was just happy to spend time in the company of someone who would share with him some food and wine, away from the echoes of the cave. After Marcellus had too much to drink and fell asleep, Titus carried out his true reason for getting Marcellus away from the cave. Titus left him there, passed out on the ground, and made his way to the cave. Unfortunately for Titus the terrors that Marcellus saw every night woke him up, and he went searching for Titus. He was afraid that his young friend had once again found himself in trouble and figured he should try to find him before he ended up losing a hand or worse. 
     After hours of searching, Marcellus had given up hope and returned to his cave, hoping that Titus would show himself eventually. He was sure that all the food had been gathered under dubious means, but it had been the first time in a while that he had gotten to feast in such a way with company he actually enjoyed. What he found at home stunned him. There was Titus sleeping soundly on the floor. He shook Titus awake and began rebuking him for making him worry so much and left the boy trembling in fear before taking a breath and sitting on his stone bed. After a few moments, his rage was replaced by curiosity as he stared at the poor child.
     “What were you thinking? You must have a good reason for tricking me.” Marcellus said solemnly.
     “I didn’t mean to trick you, Marcellus. I’m sorry.” Titus said through tears.
     “Sorry isn’t an answer. I asked you what you were thinking. So, answer the question.” The old military instructor in him was accidently treating Titus as if he was an unruly soldier.
     Titus could barely speak. “I heard you say that when you slept, you saw the dead. I wanted to see them too.”
     Marcellus gritted his teeth. “You thought, when you slept in this cave you would see my brothers? Are you mad? What makes you think you would see them the way I saw them? Even if you could see them, what made you think you would want to?” Titus stuttered, unable to get the words out but Marcellus was unable to hold back his mercilessness as Titus twitched before him like some kind of wounded prey. “OPEN YOUR FAT MOUTH AND RESPOND, TITUS!”
     Titus sobbed. “My parents! I didn’t want to see your old comrades, I wanted to see my parents!” He continued to stand there, and balled his fist, trying to stop the tears that didn’t seem to end no matter how hard he tried.
     All the anger abandoned Marcellus, and he was left with guilt. “Come, come here Titus, sit beside me.”
     Titus did so, still fighting the tears that fell now into his lap. Marcellus tried to put his hand on Titus’ shoulder, but Titus jumped as if he was afraid of getting his next pummeling.
     “Titus, I know what they say about this cave, but the dead are not here. No matter how many times Sol or Luna passes us, we alone are in this cave.” Titus looked up at him, tears in his eyes. “However, this isn’t a bad thing. Our loved ones are waiting for us, in the fields of Elysium. It’s always hardest for those of us left behind.”
     Titus gave up on holding back the tears and fell into Marcellus. Marcellus awkwardly hugged Titus, not sure what to do with the boy. Eventually he cried himself to sleep, so Marcellus left him in his bed and went out hoping to make amends. He figured the best thing he could do for Titus was rebuild the hovel he stayed in a little better, or at least make it safe enough that when Jupiter rode on the clouds and threw his stupid little tantrums it wouldn’t crush Titus as he slept.
     While Marcellus was working into the morning, arguing with himself how to correctly rebuild the home, Marcus appeared at the cave. He was quite distressed, and urgently woke Titus. 
     “Where is Marcellus? I must find him!” Blood trickled down the side of his head, and he smelled of battle and sweat.
     “I don’t know, he could be at my house if I was to guess, drinking the rest of the wine. What’s so urgent you would come all the way out here again?” Titus asked.
     “We were on the way out of the village when we were suddenly attacked by a Cyclops! They can hold it away from the citizens for now, but I know Marcellus would be able to kill it before it kills anyone else.” Without another word, he jumped onto the back of his horse and sped off in the direction Titus pointed to.
     Marcus eventually found Marcellus, who had turned the small shack into a well-built home. Well, he thought it wasn’t up to the standards he held himself to, but he hoped it was good enough for the boy that had shown him so much kindness. Marcus told him everything he had already told Titus, and instantly his mind cleared. It was like he never left the front lines. As they went by his cave to grab his old armor, he realized his sword was missing. When Marcus told him that Titus already knew about the Cyclops, Marcellus was afraid for what the boy might do. Marcellus cursed Marcus, and they both took off towards the Cyclops. 
     “How was I supposed to know the boy was orphaned by a Cyclops? It’s not as if anyone was going to tell me his village was destroyed by the same beast!” Marcus yelled over the winds as he tried to push the horse past its mortal limits.
     “I don’t care if you didn’t know. If a hair on his head is harmed, I am going to tie you to a rock and throw you into the sea outside my cave. I’m sure Neputne would be more merciful than what I can do to you!”
     Marcus stayed silent. To see Marcellus this angry gave him hope that the old man still had some of his former glory left in him. Maybe they all would live to see this day end. His only hope was that Marcellus was angry enough to kill the behemoth on his own. Otherwise, Titus wouldn’t be the only orphan anymore.
     When they did make it to the battlefield, hurt soldier were scattered around, as those still able to stand circled around the beast keeping it in place. One soldier held an unruly child who was kicking and screaming to let him go. Marcellus jumped off the horse, his anger overshadowed by the relief to see Titus still alive enough to be a nuisance. As he approached, both the soldier and Titus went pale. The soldier looked as if he was looking upon a spirit. Titus figured he was about to be one.
     “Centurion! Join the others and hold the beast until I come! Titus, where is my sword?”
Titus flushed a deep red, that was almost as vibrant as the bruise that covered his left arm as he pointed. Marcellus traced the finger to a shining blade that stuck out from the Cyclops’ calf, as it stomped around trying to smash the soldiers either underfoot or with the leafless tree it used as a club. 
     Marcellus rolled his eyes. “May Minerva grant me the wisdom not to thrash you when I am finished. Marcus, give me your spear. Call your men back. No more roman blood will be spilled today.”
     Marcus gave the order, and everyone started running for cover or dragging their fallen comrades to safety. As Marcellus approached, it was as if his mind was finally clear again. So many nights he spent in a drunken stupor trying to fight past the memories and training that had help him hostage for so long. As he walked forward, he began to see the faces of his fallen brethren again on the faces of casualties that littered the field and those gasping for breath. He began to tear up. Once again, he had failed to save those he loved most. He cried out in pain, so loudly he startled the Cyclops into staring at him alone. 
     “For Rome!” Marcellus screamed a deadly battle cry and hurled the spear at the giant foe. It cut deep into the monsters eye, causing it to thrash about wildly. Marcellus charged forward, dodging it’s mad flailing, eyes fixed upon his sword. As he blinked, his vision turning red, he could have sworn he saw his dead comrades get up and ebb him forward towards glory. He grabbed the swords hilt and ripped it out of the beast, before hamstringing it. The Cyclops fell flat on its face, clawing at the spear still stuck in its eye. Marcellus then ran up the back of the monster and stuck his blade into the skull of the Cyclops, ending it once and for all. As those who saw the great deed started to celebrate. 
     The cheers and applause slowly died, as Marcellus failed to control himself. He hacked, and sliced, and cut, and bit, and punched, and kicked, and it wasn’t until Marcus came and removed him from the dead beast that he started to come back to his senses. Had he been a couple seconds earlier, he might have saved his spear from being used as a club once the head snapped off. Marcellus collapsed into Marcus, hoping that no one had seen the carnage he created. Luckily Titus was too busy having his own wounds looked at, otherwise he would’ve joined in with the villagers in keeping their distance. 
     Titus held his bruised arm close to him, trying not to cry. “Marcellus, are you ok?”
     Marcellus spoke, tears in his eyes, “No, but I will be. Did you see them?”
     “See who? All I saw was you, but I couldn’t see the mark that everyone says you have.” Titus started looking, searching for the people Marcellus was speaking of.
     Marcellus turned back to the battlefield, and the people all excused themselves from the scene. The parents worried that the children would have nightmares. The shop keepers hoped this wouldn't affect business. The men reasoned with themselves this is why they never joined. The children hoped to be like him some day. Marcellus stared at the cyclops, making sure it wasn't getting back up, secretly pissed off there wasn't another. He felt guilt in the deepest pit of his soul, knowing this was going to be one more reason everyone spoke highly of him from a distance. He did his job, why did they fear him for it? No one knew but everyone acted accordingly.
     Marcus put his hand on the shoulder of Marcellus, and he jumped as if the fight had not ended yet.
     “The mark of Mars cannot be seen,” Marcus said as he shook his head. “It only shows itself in the worst of times. It invades the minds of those it claims. It offers no quarter. It’s the reason the general populus worships him, but just like a god, they would prefer he stay on Olympus. Less likely to get killed experiencing what made him so famous.”
     Titus innocently looked at Marcellus’ brow and touched the scar. “Then how did you get this, Marcellus?” Titus asked.
     Marcellus sniffled, then wiped the tears from his eyes. He stood and put his hand on the back of Titus’ head. They started to leave the deadly battlefield, Marcellus nodding to Marcus as they passed. They shared a moment of wordless understanding, before Marcus returned to his duties. Marcellus decided he would return to the cave one last time to leave behind his battle-hardened gear, but leaving it open in case he found himself unfortunate enough to need it again.
     “I’ll tell you about it when we get home.”

***

Message from the author:

Thank you so much for reading this short story! Please follow me on any of my social media platforms, and get ready for next Wednesday's post talking about everything that should be expected with my upcoming book. Leave a comment! What do you think about the story? Would you rather have a paperback version available first, or a kindle version?

Let me know in the comments below!

Playing Bad Stories is My New Favorite Way to Gain Inspiration

      Not every story is a good one. Even though that is as obvious as gravity, it needs to be said because that doesn't stop it from being enjoyable. Trying to create something that is the right amount of "campy" without it becoming cringe-inducing is an art unto itself. The easiest way to find examples of what I mean is by talking to parents, and letting them regale you with their most hated thing their kid loves, or listen to a dad talk about how he wishes his kids would just watch Power Rangers. When it comes to video games, not every single one is a winner either. A lot of video game stories have to either explain the game and its logic or completely ignore the game part and be good on its own. Many of the games I love to play have some of the most nonsense stories ever created, and I have found it to be inspiring.

     A good game doesn't mean it always has a good story. A good game, if you ask me, is an entertaining experience even if the other aspects lack luster. Like a sport can be entertaining to watch and have a deep and rich history, but if it's boring to watch then it's not going to be popular. When you have games like Pizza Tower that are so fun to play and so well crafted, the last thing I'm thinking about is "what is lore?" I just recently watched a video from someone recently doing a challenge run to see if you can play through every level in Mario, the first one on NES, and that game still looks fun! (Video Here) The story boils down to saving the princess from the king of turtle people-things but it's a simple premise that has worked for literal decades. As a writer though, it makes me laugh when it's obviously played up to be funny, but when a story is truly bad, it makes it unplayable. 

     Recently I started playing through the different stories of fighting games, and some of them are there just to give you a reason to fight the other person, and some of these ideas were just terrible. Like OG Capcom games might have a misspelled word or two during your win screen, but even looking at a game like Vampire Savior the screens are there to give you a good feeling after having to beat up the world and lose most of your quarters to the end boss. Playing games that have great gameplay but silly stories is some of the most fun you can have as a writer in my opinion. While I'm enjoying playing Devil May Cry from the HD collection, I play it to laugh at the campyness and deliveries of lines in a game that is the birth of my need to get a combo in any game with a giant sword! What do you mean I can only swing twice in Dark Souls before I'm tired? If Dante was here he'd have already comboed Gwyn to death and had to fight the devil or somthing. DMC wasn't always the best with why you were suddenly fighting Beelzebub, Japan loves the fly guy and will put him in there with an obvious reference to Beserk, get over it! Funny enough, so would Dark Souls...

     Thank you for reading another one of these little pieces that help me decompress. A lot goes on behind the scenes of trying to create something that is unbiasedly and objectively "good" because what is good? Tragedy is obvious, comedy is subjective, and good relative to what? I truly believe that the Bible is one of the most interesting and well written "books" in the world, maybe even the perfect story depending on your beliefs, and some ancient stories exist because there is a core commonality; it's a good, well written story. I want to write something that doesn't waste the reader's time, but even the most campy story can feel worth it if it's a good but campy story. Let me know what you think below and follow the social medias, so I can keep getting a chance to give y'all something good to read.

     

Buried Alive at Sea

Buried Alive at Sea

By Geordan Ashford

     Those idiots. Those absolute buffoons! I told them I was hard to wake up, and sometimes I would seem dead for hours, even days, but I would eventually wake up. I’m sure they grabbed someone who thought they were a doctor, and I seemed dead to them, but the closest thing to a doctor on the ship was someone who happened to learn to read while selling newspapers as a kid or whatever that fool was telling everyone. They must’ve thrown me overboard, gave me a sailor’s burial. I would appreciate the respect if that hadn’t landed me on this forsaken rock. I’d call it an island if there was anything more than sand and a few palm trees strewn about. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. I had counted at least seven or eight days before I gave up. All that I can look for now is a sail on the horizon, but I don’t think they would see me even if I did catch sight of one.

    What scares me most is when I fell asleep under the stars, something kept visiting me in my dreams. I still don’t know what it was. The first night it appeared I figured the coconut I ate was off. Maybe the tiny fish I had gotten ahold of was tainted or something. It came walking out of the water towards me. A sea devil, with scaly skin, clawed hands, and seaweed for hair. That’s all I could make of it. The darkness shielded the creature from me, so that I couldn’t discern its face. Just giant, fishlike eyes that glimmered in the moonlight. It stopped right before another step would have brought it out of the water.

    “Come to me Michael,” it beckoned. “Come and I will take you away from this island and give you a new purpose.”

    “Begone foul demon!” I screamed in response. “Whether you know my name or not, I have no plans to do the Devil’s bidding.” And with that I tried to fall back into my slumber. The least I wanted to get on this island was a full night's rest for the first time in forever.

    Again, it said to me, “Come to me. Come and I will take you away from this place and give you a new purpose.”

    I had already begun to ration what I had left and was in no mood. “Be silent siren from the deep, I know your tricks! All you wish to do is to drown me and feast upon me. As you can see, I would make a terrible meal anyway in my current state.” 

    It let out a gargling sound that could have been mistaken for a laugh. “I am no siren, for if I was you would already be in my arms, and I would’ve already had my fill.”

    “Then what are you? Some hallucination to torment me even further? A vision to drive me insane before I dive into the water? A punishment for whatever misdeeds I had committed?”

    The sky began to turn grey, and before it dove back into the waters it told me, “No something much older. Something much more powerful. You will soon see.”

    I was alone this time, and sleep didn’t take over. As the sun rose and my dream hadn't ended, I was fully aware that the thing that had appeared before me was as real as the sand beneath me. For days I was too scared to get close to the water. To make matters worse, I was running out of sustinence. The my skin was turning into red leather. My eyes never stopped squinting at the horizon, hoping to see a sail. I tried taking rocks and spelling out the word help, but none was coming. I was able to kill a seagull once or twice, I can’t remember. Made me wish I could have dined on the rats that stowed away on our ship. They had more meat at the very least. 

    The island was taking everything away from me. All because of an inability for a couple of men to understand I meant exactly what I had said when I had said it. Those vile villains, probably enjoying whatever rum was on the ship and sleeping with bellies full of food. Here I am barely surviving on coconut water and vermin with wings, and they get to sleep soundly in their bunks after having thrown me overboard. The spite was what was keeping me alive when nothing else was giving me spirit to persevere. They probably haven’t thought about me at all since the incident. 

    I was losing my mind more and more with each sunrise. Everything had slowly gone away. The seagulls stopped coming altogether. Even the small fire I had kept going was ruined by a storm that would give me only a few precious hours of reprieve before pounding me and the sand again. In the cover of that storm, the creature visited me again. This time it left the water and crept closer to me.

    “Come with me, poor, abandoned wretch. I know your thoughts and can see the depths of your heart. Come with me and I will get you back home and off this island.” It squatted near me, with its long arms reaching out. It kept coming closer, the talons on the ends of its fingers gleaming in the moon light. 

    I picked up a log that had embers still burning at the ends of it. “Stay back! Get away from me! I have no interest in making a deal with whatever horrible abomination you happen to be!” As I swung it, the creature recoiled, before snatching the weapon from my hands and throwing it aside.

    “Fine, than starve. But remember this, the dead often don’t get their vengeance from beyond the grave.” It turned its back on me and vanished in the storm.

    Slowly but surely even the little I had left was gone. Food, drink, sanity, all of it was taken from me. My teeth ached for anything to chew on. My throat became a hollow tunnel used for nothing but taking in air just to let it back out again. I began growing desperate. I wanted it all to end, and wasn’t willing to wait until starvation and dehydration had overtaken me. I took the log that I had tried to use as a weapon and fashioned it as a shiv. I figured I would take my own life, and make sure I never touched the water, just to spite the evil thing that had also forsaken me. When I held the weapon to my own throat, I lost my nerve. The strength in my arms was only useful in holding the weapon up, but I couldn’t even end my own life.

    As I sat on the sand, I thought of everyone and everything that had done me wrong. The crew for ignoring my warning and throwing me overboard. The trading company’s solicitors, as they snaked an extra five years out of me when I had only signed on for two. My own parents, for committing the ultimate sin of birthing me. My anger burned day and night, sun-up until sun-down, as if fury and wrath itself were the only thing sustaining me. It grew and grew, until the small fire that had gone out had found its home in my chest. Aching, writhing, and hungry.  Only God Himself could've decerned if it was rightous fury or sinnful wrath that had overtaken me, and so I sat there waiting in my little hovel, waiting for everything to burn out and for death to take me. At the worst of it all, the damned thing appeared to me again. I was so weak, and so frail, I just didn't care anymore. There wasn't anything left for it to take, yet there was still nothing I was willing to give.

    “Have you finally come to your senses? Are you ready to come with me?” It said, as if trying to sound as pleasant as possible.

    “No, no I don’t believe I have. I think I will starve. Die here, tired, angry, and with vengeance I have not yet sought after. Maybe I will come back as a vengeful spirit and haunt you all.” I began to laugh deliriously. Or cry. I couldn't tell.

    The monster began to growl. It tried to lunge at me from the safety of the water. I stumbled backwards, my laughter cut short by it's nails ripping through the pathetic shirt I still wore.

    “Then die for all I care, you ungrateful man-child! Wallow in your own filth. At any time you could have left and yet you choose to die here, wasting away!” It turned its back on me again.

    “No, I couldn’t have.” It stopped in its tracks. “I have been stuck here for who knows how long, and my only way home has been either you or the sweet mercy of death. You have said come with me, but you have yet to tell me what it is I will do.”

    It snapped back around, hatred in it’s eyes. “I don’t have to tell you anything worm. My offer is as it stands; come with me, and you will be given a new purpose.”

    “What purpose? Who will give it to me? I fear God Almighty himself, yet you think you can give me purpose just because you come wallowing up from the depths like some pygmy leviathan?”

    “My master is even greater than Him! He fears my master! Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been locked away at the bottom of the ocean since time began!”

    I struck a chord. I thought I had nothing left but that seemed untrue. I hadn't lost my sense of humor, or whatever this could be mistaken for. “Then why isn’t this master here? Why hasn’t it broken its own bounds? For goodness sake! With all this power I am surprised this grand master of yours hasn’t made a ship appear out of thin air yet just to ferry me home!”

    As I began poking at the fish's mind, I felt a slight drizzle begin. “Don’t you dare take a mocking tone! If you are so great yourself, why haven’t you left? Better yet, why not just swim home!”

    “I am no fish beast such as yourself. I would more likely fall off the face of the Earth before making it back to England. Maybe Europe if I got lucky.” I began to laugh again, as lightning struck across the sky. Rain began to pour, and the creature began approaching once again.

    “I wouldn’t say you were so lucky. Not now of all times.” A sinister smile began to play across its face. A flash showed me its horrifying mug, but I was too hungry, too angry to care.

    “Oh, is this storm your master’s doing as well? Well than, take me on these winds and drop me off at home!” I felt around in the sand and took a firm grasp of the shiv. It was only as sharp as I could make it on a rough rock I had found. 

    It didn’t speak, only screeched out in anger as it lunged at me. I used what little strength I had left and stabbed at the beast. Its talons slid through the meat of my shoulder like butter. However, the spikey piece of wood I called a weapon glided under its scales and pierced into its heart. It howled in agony, and gasped for the breath I had loosened from it’s lungs. The blood spilling from my arm released all the anger I had been saving.

    “Where is he! Where is your master?” I stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, “He who can call rain and let you walk on my island? This is not your place! This is mine! MINE! My island! You are nothing! Call to your god! I hope he can save you from mine, becaue he isn't going to save you from me!” I had stabbed and stabbed until the shiv had turned from a sharp weapon to a dull bludgeon. When it had splintered and was hurting me more than it was hurting it, I began to use my fist. “Take me home you damned abomination! You could have done it at any time!” Smack. Smack. Smack. Squish. Squish. “You want me? Now you have me! Take me home, demon!”

    The rage died away, and the only burning feeling I had left was from the wound I had sustained. It would have to burn though, as there wasn’t anything around I could use to staunch the flow. I limped away from the dead fiend, tired, broken, and crying a little. The damned thing could’ve taken me away at any time, but it didn’t. It wanted to make a slave out of me, or worse. As I leaned against the tree, waiting for death, a sharp grumble came from my stomach. The anger and fear had left me, but the hunger remained. I looked again at the watery demon, and tried my hardest not to notice how closely it resembled a fish. 

    Its head and parts of its torso no longer resembled anything after the pummeling I gave it, but its arms and legs still looked in good shape. Even the kelp that replaced where hair should've been on its head could have been used for a nice bandage. I built a fire from what few dry things I could find and prayed for forgiveness even as I took my first greedy bites of the monster's body. It was reminiscent of salmon, or tuna I think. I bandaged my arm too, but the cut was so deep that I thought if the Lord didn't punish me later for the atrocity I had committed, then having a newar useless arm might suffice.

    I awoke with a start as I was shaken awake. I held the shiv out in front of me as if it was going to be any good against whatever was after me next. I didn't get a chance to sharpen it again, I had passed out when my stomach was filled. To my surprise it was a man, with a few others in a small dingy pulled up on shore. The fire I had built had apparently caught their attention. The remains of last night’s meal were gone. Not finding the beast still there meant I no longer had any kind of proof., but it saved me from having to explain the beast to them. Even the wound I had received seemed to have vanished. 

     They took me back to their ship, and I told them my tale. They treated me like a mad man. I know what I saw and have the scars to tell the story for me. I told them everything. Everything except my last meal on the island. I also let them know that if I fall asleep, let me rest. I am not dead. I ate what they allowed me to have, and drank until I felt like my stomach would burst. As they led me downstairs, and pointed me to a bunk, I felt relief for the first time in forever. That was until the sky grew cloudy, and rain began to fall. Then all I felt was hunger. 

Thank you so much for reading this short story, and don’t be too sad it’s over; next Friday another fresh story is going to be dropped here on the blog to keep drumming up hype for my book “Magic Most Foul” that is being released at the end of this month.

Please consider following any of my socials and comment below if you made it this far! Comments let me know what I should keep doing and what not to keep doing (at the very least let me know who all read the story haha). 

Thank you again, and look out for this Wednesday when I will have another little piece talking about writing and gaming. Let me know if there was a specific game y’all think I should take a look at!