Stinging air slaps my lungs as I gasp them, like they will be my last ones. A slow chilly breeze brushes its fingers along my spine and tries to steal my rage from me, tries to steal my fire, the only thing I have left. My chest is tight and heavy and I can't seem to get enough air into my blasted lungs, I'm dying. I wish it would just clutch me like a rose to a lover's heart and that would be the end of it.
Melisande choked on her blood as it poured like a great rain down her throat. Her sentence was to be carried out by her dain- her husband to be. They were to be the next clan leaders. As Melisande looked defiantly up through her blood soaked hair, she couldn’t stop the hate that festered in her heart for her dain. Never again would their bond be the same and it was not because he was currently torturing her, it was because he did not listen to her as a dain ought to. It was a clan’s Dain that led with ruthlessness and his Daima who kept him from mercilessness. Without Mel guiding him by his side their clan was doomed to horrors untold.
Curtains white as bone, swish lazily to a tune only they can hear. The moon’s watchful eye bores down on a small quiet house; It’s baneful, sadness reeks in waves to any brave enough to venture near. The word house may be too insufficient a word to use- shack is more accurate. One soulless night, a woman of late fifties, finds herself walking by this lonely house one sweltering summer’s eve. A woman of questionable morals, she indeed was, and with no home, family, or money to her name, she decides to sleep there for the evening.
An Irate King
“Bring the dragon witch forth before me.” The king said this with a very deadly tone. I shift from my spot next to him in uneasiness. I have not decided whether this is due to the words the king just said or the way he said them. Either way someone was about to be in serious trouble. The thing that is brought before the dark king is no dragon. In fact the creature resembles a fae or water sprite, something otherworldly, definitely, but a dragon she is not. She is no more a dragon than he, a mortal, is. With her silver hair dull with the mud caking it and the blood dried to those same strands, she looked striking- dare I say beautiful even. I held my breath as those vivid violet eyes, so filled with rage and cunning, lifted to meet mine.
A kelpie, my memory in its panicked state doesn’t remember too much lore on the monster. Although from where I’m standing it doesn’t appear like one. Supposedly they’re half horse half something else that feasts on flesh. Once the gorgeous beast entices a human to ride upon its back a magic seals your fate forever by making it impossible to get off the horse as he plunges into the inky depths of the water. Once the child, man, or woman is drowned, the kelpie eats his meal. All this I know is at the forefront of my mind and yet as the horse tosses its mane all I can do is let out a faint breath. Whether it is fear or awe that causes my breathlessness I know not. I know it can only be a selkie one by the untold beauty this animal wears and two by the location of this animal it trots upon the grainy gravel resting just out of reach of the great black lake and lastly, reason three, it is late at night and the moon shines down upon the fluorescent silvery white back of the beast. Those are the exact characteristics of the creatures of horror in the lore told inside my village.
“Did you know.. It’s considered rude to board another’s boat without the captain’s permission darling?” I sweep my eyes towards him- the captain. He’s handsome by human standards, with his sea blue eyes, and darkened hair. His rugged beard made him very nice to look at. Apparently I was staring because he asked voice very low, almost a growl, “Do you like the look of me little minnow?” Another man from his crew puts in, “Sir I am not so sure, these fish understand our words.” The captain looks at me calmly, assessing me. For what I did not know. “Oh I think she understands well enough.”
Crimson Dance Their bodies lithely move in sync, sweat coats every inch of the two deadly dancers. Their gazes are intensely locked in an intimate moment. Their swords clash as each strives to kill the other. They move with feline grace, each striking so fast their bodies are an inhuman blur. After a flurry of blows it appears like one has the upper hand and the fight has swung in favor of the female. A wicked smirk alights upon the elven woman’s face a half second later, she catches his sword with hers and knocks it from his grasp. Immediately following, she flicks her wrist bringing the point of her sword to his throat. In a light musical thrill she speaks a single one word, “concede.” He pauses dumbstruck at his defeat and stares at his fallen sword. She was weak, how had she bested me? Thoughts swirl like oil on water inside his head.
A full moon shines unimpeded, each blade of grass illuminated in a silvery glow. All is quiet and still, until a single clear voice rings forth. The trees shiver and soon a haunting melody strikes up, the beautiful chords make the forest come alive as the notes flow from one to another. The ancient oaks creak and groan as their great trunks and branches sway with the risings and fallings of the melody. Their leaves caress each other and cause a shushing sound as if a gale has pushed and prodded at their bases. The ethereal song picks up in tempo as the eleven singers allow their own emotions to seep into their tune. Many animals rush through in a wild frenzy; they respond to the call for their mates. This song is sung each moon to help the forest and its inhabitants to flourish. It is, however, very fatal to human ears.