One red eye cracked open. It had not opened in an eternity. Her muscles were cramped but she was finally free. She was alone in a space of darkness. There was no light but she could see, although there was admittedly not much to see at all. She wanted to see something. Anything. She did not want to be trapped in this dark expanse.

As she wished, light flooded before her. Stones and rocks, mosses and nests spread out before her, so familiar, jolting her fully awake. It was her home, just as she left it before the war had begun. Before she had led her family to their deaths.

And his nest, which had been empty for so long, was the only one filled.

Blueberry was staring at her, his gaze blank but not empty. There were emotions behind them, so much sparkling in that deep blue. He stared at her as she stared at him. She wanted desperately to step forward and embrace him but she was afraid that this was not real, that if she tried she would fall through blank air and it would all disappear before her eyes. She did not want any of this to be gone, it had been away for long enough.

A deep humming sound came from the moose's chest. "Blackberry," he rumbled. "Join me. Please."

She hesitated. Was this a trick? Was this a dream?

But when Blueberry tilted his head at her, in that way he used to do, she realized she didn't care anymore.

She was at his side a second later, pressing the side of her head against his neck, feeling his own muzzle fit on her shoulder. He was warm and real and alive and she dissolved into him. His smell, his presence, everything. She was finally home.

"I missed you, my love," she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse and thick. "I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead."

He did not respond right away so she stepped forward and sat herself against his chest and roosted next to him, feathers against fur, feeling his steady heartbeat through her body, just as they used to lay together. She felt light as air, all worries, all sadness, all hatred gone. Only relief and love and joy.

"I was never gone," he mumbled back. "I am always with you."

She didn't stop to consider his statement, merely soaked in this familiarity, this happiness that she had missed so dearly. If only the rest of the family were around, the world would be perfect. Only happiness. Only love. If only she hadn't messed it up.

"Why did you do it?"

And there it was. The question she never wanted to consider. She leaned back to look into his eyes and found sadness and loss painted on his face. He knew. He knew that their son was dead, pulled away, crushed into nothing. Because she had led them there, her children, their children. For what reason?

"I don't know," she choked back, but she knew it wasn't an answer. A thing like that, such a terrible thing, it couldn't just have no reason, but that was one thing she couldn't remember. "I...I wanted...I needed...I don't know. I don't know why I did it. I wish I never had."

Blueberry closed his eyes and leaned over her, pressing the tip of his nose against her back. "I wish you hadn't either, love. We could have stayed here."

Tears collected in the corner of her eyes as she leaned against him. Why had she thrown it all away? Why had she led them to their deaths? She could have been a loving mother instead of pushing them and hurting them. She had been consumed by anger and fear and the insanity the had plagued her for so long. But now it was gone and she was left alone with nothing. It was all her fault.

"I'm scared, Blueberry...I'm scared for them. I've put them all in danger. I've put you in danger."

The moose nuzzled against her back again, but it felt distant. Like her senses were being compressed. But still she heard his voice as he whispered back to her. "It's alright, love...you have nothing to fear. Not anymore. They are strong. They will survive...but you can't...we can't go back. Our family cannot be one anymore. You saw to that."

She opened her eyes again but she was in darkness yet again. She felt something starting to close around her limbs and fear broke through her despair. She looked around but he was gone. His scent and presence had disappeared. "Blueberry wait...what about you? Where are you?"

But there was no answer. Only darkness, only silence and the sleep was falling over her once again. She made one last cry into the void before it consumed her once again.

Writing Prompt:

Write a story that contains the following line:
"It's alright, sweetheart... You have nothing to fear."

Re-Orientation


"It's all right, sweetheart... You have nothing to fear." His voice was a dark, seductive murmur.

Cassie managed to avoid rolling her eyes. Her pencil flicked over the clipboard's notes, adding to them, as she answered. "...Again, sir, language like that will call attention to you. No one uses 'sweetheart' anymore. And I remind you--for the fourth time--I'm a lycanthrope. You can't charm me."

The ancient being half-smiled, half-grimaced, apologetically. "I am terribly sorry. Old habits die hard, so they say."

Well, this one's well-mannered, at least. Some of the vampires, after so long asleep, were half-feral slavering lunatics. This was one of those few who still held courtly manners and sophistication--a thin veneer over their predatory nature, she knew, but a welcome veneer nonetheless. "You're forgiven, Count Wilhelm; let's move on with the reorientation. I think, at this point, I can say that we ought to place you back as nobility. You don't use contractions, you still have wealth from your old life, you're fully-educated on proper etiquette. I'll make a note, suggest it to the management-..."

She trailed off. Her eyes were on the clipboard but she had the distinct impression that--... Yup. Cassie glanced up and here he was, leaning over her from half a foot away. He had the whole "dark seductive gaze" thing going on, apparently having forgotten her warning of exactly twenty seconds ago. The newly-awakened, the ones who'd slumbered for centuries, had trouble controlling their hunger even when freshly-fed. Slowly, she looked up, lifting her pencil to prod him in the chest, pushing lightly. "...Personal space," she added, and when he stepped back, blinking, she continued. "Right, where was I? ...You don't use contractions in your speech. That'll be seen as stilted, old-fashioned--it'll stand out. And I get that you like the ruffles and lace but that will get you noticed, and the Conclave is quite insistent that all newly-raised are very clear on the whole 'don't get us supernaturals noticed' thing, all right? So hold back on the fancy clothes for awhile, at least until you've got a feel for the world."

"I see." Six inches away again, exhaling down at her, his high cheekbones framing thin red lips. She stared up at him.

"I'm. Immune." She lowered her clipboard in exasperation. "Listen, let me try and explain why using your supernatural charm is a bad idea."

He clearly kept forgetting himself--he backed up a step, blinking again, as if wakening from his own trance. Cassie, meanwhile, began to tick points off on her fingers with her pencil.

"First, let's say you use that seduction on, I don't know, some girl on the train. She thinks you're the hottest--"

"Train?" he asked, mildly, with the exact tone of someone who had no idea what a train was.

Cassie closed her eyes, his dossier flashing through her memory. Fifteenth century, she reminded herself. Of course he had no idea. "...Sort of a public... carriage; you'll learn about them soon, right? So let's say you seduce her. She thinks you're incredibly handsome, and she pulls out her phone to take a picture. Six hours later she looks back and suddenly you're--..." Cassie paused. Count Wilhem, the fifteenth-century vampire, was staring blankly at her with a gaze that now said both "I have no idea what a phone is" and "what, exactly, is a picture." Cassie grimaced. "...An image, instantaneous. So she maybe shares this to social media-... Err. Villages. Shares it to lots of villages. And they point out that you aren't the most handsome man they've ever seen, and everyone involved starts to realize something's wrong, right?"

He stared, as if trying to conceive of some brilliantly intelligent response to this. He immediately fell back--and she didn't know why she was surprised by this--on an attempt at magical seduction. "But I am," he crooned, after a moment. He took a single, tentative step toward her, as if hoping that this time, it had worked.

Cassie covered her eyes with her hand, leaning into her palm for a long moment, as if this gesture alone would keep her patience from bleeding rapidly away. "...I need to go make a phone call. Stay here," she added. "I think, with you, I'm gonna need overtime."

'I live with a ghost.'

I live with a ghost.

That statement used to be a joke, however. My cat, Domino, would often spend his days staring off at nothing in particular. My friends would say he's 'staring at the ghost.' He was an older cat, the arthritis made it difficult for him to move. So, he'd lay on my couch and just... stare. I was always certain there was just a fly, or some speck of dust the old thing had found interesting.

I live alone. The building I live in used to be some Georgian manor in the mid-18th century. It'd been sectioned off, converted into separate apartments. I didn't much care about the history of the place when I first moved in-- it wasn't exactly anything to brag about. It makes sense, though, right? I mean, if anywhere were going to be haunted, it would be an old Georgian building that's been redecorated and changed. It'd make ghosts angry.

But the ghost that lives in my apartment doesn't seem particularly angry. A woman from work, who relies on 'healing crystals' over medical science and has an unvaccinated son with a hyphenated name, told me that my house "has energy." But, supposedly, a good energy. A protective energy. That someone from the Realm Beyond was looking out for me.

I told her that her son "has measles."

We don't talk anymore.

But I find myself thinking about it far more than I should. If a ghost were with me in the house, would it not be more appropriate to call it some kind of guardian angel? Aren't ghosts supposed to be angry, and vengeful? More importantly, out of the seven billion people on earth, why look out for an accountant in her thirties? I try to ask the ghost, or the angel, these questions while I grind medication into Domino's food bowl.

It is yet to answer. At least... verbally.

Stay with me on this one. I'm not a crazy person or anything, but I've seen her. She lingers in the kitchen while I cook, just at the corner of my eye. If I turn my head to look at her, she leaves. As if she were never there. I see her when I get home from a long day at work, a brief flash of a white-gold dress, a pale face. I swear I've seen her smile at me when I walk in through the door.

Sometimes, I'm aware of her in other ways. I smell perfume that isn't mine. I feel a hand going through my hair just before I fall asleep. It doesn't scare me, not at all. It's... nice. I've lived alone for so long that I appreciate the company, even if it's just my imagination. I make jokes, out loud, hoping I can hear her laugh. She never does. I imagine she must hate puns.

I name her the most generic 18th-century name I can think of. Elizabeth. Liz for short. She's yet to tell me her actual name, after all. It's rude, but I guess I'm not exactly the one to start chiding ghosts-and-or-guardian angels about manners. It beats talking to my cat.

One day, I take said cat to the vet, for a regular check-up. The vet tells me that Domino is only getting worse. The arthritis is causing him incurable pain and they've found a tumour in his brain. They tell me it would be kinder to put him down. Numbly, I agree. I sign the papers and I sit with my stupid, old cat as he slowly shuts his eyes and falls still.

Numbly, I walk home. Numbly, I open the door. I sit on the couch, and I cry.

I don't see the flash of a white-gold dress, and I don't see her pale face. Instead, I feel. Someone is sat next to me, and I don't dare to lift my head from my hands to look at her. I feel her arm around my shoulders, and the scent of ludicrously expensive perfume hits the roof of my mouth.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Elizabeth says. I feel her breath whisper against my cheek. "You have nothing to fear."

I believe her.

Alright, some awesome stuff this week!! It’s so awesome to see folks participating and I’ve loved reading through the stuff everyone’s produced!

20 magicka has been added to the accounts of Kera, Pride and Blackberry!

Thank you everyone who hopped on board to write for our first prompt!

The next prompt will be going up shortly!

A quick question for you guys; how would you feel about a small (5 magicka) reward for posting critiques of others’ short stories?

@Pride @Vladis @Kera

Edit: our second prompt, write a story that features a significant piece of jewelry, is up!

Writing Prompt:

Write a story that features a significant piece of jewelry.

The Locket

His hands ached. Sharp rocks pushed into his palms, his fingers finding grip on points too narrow for him to easily grip. His arms hurt, too; he worked hard, but that was a different kind of work, he was finding, from climbing a mountain.

His foot slipped. He managed to catch himself, but knocked loose a stone, which clattered down the nearly-sheer face and echoed through the still fog. He glanced down after it, alarmed--which was a mistake. It was dizzying, from up here--and the thought too far to go back raced through his mind. Too high. A sheer drop, a couple hundred meters at least, fell into thick fog. He couldn't see beyond.

He closed his eyes, and as the clatter of the falling rock faded, all he could hear was his own ragged, lung-burning gasping. He could feel the cold rock pressed to him, which was almost a relief; his body was hot, steaming hot, from the strenous climb.

Trembling with weariness, he at last opened his eyes, and looked up. Above, the fog eclipsed the peak. He had no idea how far he was--was it ten minutes, or ten hours? Again, he considered going back--but again, he thought to himself, too far. And anyway, with Mary dead, there's nothing left to go back for. Grief struck him. Grief pushed him on, alone on the mountain face, in the cold fog. Gods, I miss her.

Climbing a mountain in the mist to meet an unknown fate was, he reflected, a lot like facing grief. You had to strike out alone. No one could help you with it--sure, they could tell you what to expect. But there was no gouged-out path to follow, no certain ending. You'd be alone. You'd be miserable, and you'd hurt. But maybe, just maybe, you'd get to the top... eventually. And maybe then you'd see over the fog, and find some beauty left in the world.

Until then? You're on your own, clinging to the cliff, debating whether to just let yourself fall, he thought grimly. Lost in the fog.

Hand over hand, grunting shove after upward push, over and over again--and suddenly the cliffside changed. Now it was smoothing out, angling forward. Easier going.

...And now, he realized, something smelled like death and burning. Instinct thrilled in him, his animal brain telling him to run. Shut up, he told his animal brain. This is what we came for. When the slope was flat ground, he stood upright at last, brushing himself off and trying not to fall over. His entire body shook from fatigue, but onward he went, into the fog at the mountain peak.

For a time, there was nothing: just thick cloud and rock shifting underfoot. After what felt like forever, following that acrid stench, he found the dark cave mouth looming below. I'm going to die, he thought, and then shrugged, and struck out into the bowels of the mountain.

_________________

The dragon was enormous. He'd never seen anything like it--never dreamed of anything that big. And it was loud--its voice rumbling and booming with every syllable, echoing through the chamber. The piles of gold upon which it lay glittered, and the gems and baubles glinted in the light of the fires burning here and there.

"...THE PEACE. YOU WOULD CHALLENGE THE PEACE THESE OFFERINGS HAVE BOUGHT, SIMPLY FOR A TRINKET?"

The man winced. "...I don't want to, no. But it wasn't willingly given--it was stolen. And it's nothing. Nothing to you. Dull silver-..." He had trouble finding his wavering voice. His throat was dry with terror. But that doesn't matter. "Just a locket, with a picture. It means the world to me."

The dragon huffed, and turned, and a moment later there it was: the tiny locket, in the tip of its snout, dropped--only to be pinned beneath massive talons as it turned those awful golden eyes back on him. "IT IS NOT NOTHING. I KEEP THESE THINGS FOR WHAT THEY HOLD. THIS ONE IS SORROW. THIS ONE IS LOVE. IT HOLDS ALL THE WISHES OF THE WORLD, AND HOPE, AND GRIEF. IT HOLDS LOSS, AND PROMISES OF THE FUTURE. IT IS VALUABLE." The dragon paused, eyeing him.

And then--suddenly, inexplicably--it had flicked the locket toward him, so that it tumbled with a soft clinking over the stone, landing nearly at his feet. He stared up, and then knelt, picking it up delicately.

"YOU WILL TAKE ITS PROMISES, AND YOU WILL MAKE GOOD ON THEM. YOU WILL FIND WHAT COULD BE." There was another clatter--a small golden ring, rolling toward him. "WEAR THIS IN PROMISE. LEARN AND LIVE, LITTLE ONE, AND BRING IT BACK WHEN IT IS FULL OF BETTER TIMES."

The man knelt, picking up the locket in one hand, the ring in the other. He looked down at them, carefully opening the locket, feeling tears welling up in his eyes at the sight of the picture within. "Thank you... I will?" he managed weakly.

"THE RING IS AN OATH. DO NOT DARE TO BREAK IT. NOW GO." The dragon breathed smoke, and turned, curling onto its pile. He stared at it for a moment before turning away.

He had it back, at least-... maybe some things did matter. It had sensed all that..? Loss, sorrow? ...Promises? Hope? ...Just from a locket? He stared down at the pendant, tears streaming down his face now, and tucked it away as he left the cave, back out onto the mountain's peak.

He looked up.

The fog was clearing, now, he saw: the light of the rising sun filling the world with a golden glow.

sorry this is so long >.<

P.S. Yeah I'd be up for the magicka for critiquing. I really liked the other stories. REGARDLESS, here's two short notes on the other stories!

SilverWinter: Yours was really good and I liked the emotion in it; as a grammatical point there should always be a space after an ellipsis (these ...) but maybe it was just the formatting that hid that!

April: I really liked yours too. Good humor and a really good concept and a lot of emotion in that one too. I would've loved it if it were just a little longer--maybe a few sentences exploring afterlife/cat's fate/ghost's knowledge of such SOMEHOW. Even just the narrator's thoughts, but it was really good.

I wanted to participate this week, but ended up just doing a little ramble about Envy and their crown.

And @Pride I LOVE that one! it's super mysterious, it's left me with a lot of questions and I love the idea behind the dragon's hoard and everything in it being symbolic of something. Have you thought about turning it into a longer story? Because as I say, there's a lootta questions left over and it seems like it could make a great beginning or prologue!

Anyone else got any thoughts on earning magicka for feedback?

The Crown

Envy knew that the crown they wore was meaningless.

It was a symbol of their power, yes; but what it made them into didn't change what they were without it. Their crown didn't make them big like Tenzin, or beautiful like Pride. It didn't give them the ability to eat or drink.

It was, by all means, just a trinket meant for a false king.

With slow motions, the small green beast dipped their head and let the object slide down into their paws, where they turned it over, holding it almost tenderly. Their gaze softened as they looked upon it, even though the jewel flashed its golden light into their eyes.

With every distant skitter of a cave rat or echoing drip of calcified water droplets, they flinched; it was almost as though they didn't want to be seen like this, in a state of quiet musing.

Such states, for the weasel, were almost excruciatingly rare.

Usually, they held their thoughts at arm's length and their worries even further away. It was too easy these days, to just let their limbs carry them where they will. Their silver tongue seemed to speak almost for itself, most of the time. But today? Looking at their crown, they felt surprisingly numb.

There was no-one here to prove themselves to, and little for them to do.

And yet, even now, there was an ache.

If they really wanted to, anyone could make themselves a crown like this, and theirs would always be bigger. If they really wanted to, they could waltz in and declare themselves the new king of the Seven, and Envy, as great a magician as they were, would be powerless to stop their own subjects leaving if they so chose. Envy could scream and yell and order them back all they wanted, but if the others kept on walking then Envy couldn't pull them back. Anyone in the caves would make a more impressive king than them. They knew this.

How did Pride have any pride left, at this point?

As always, Envy's ability to reign was only as strong as their ability to pretend. So long as they made themselves look busy, the Seven seemed happy.

And at the very least, the crown they held was theirs, even if the title of King was sorely undeserved. At times they wondered if the crown was the only thing in their life that was important to them.

Even now, cycles and cycles after giving themselves their name, it still defined them more than they cared to admit.

25 magicka has been added to Pride and Livius!

I'm sorry for the lack of updates in the past few weeks!

Our third prompt, Write a story featuring some form of light, has been added!

@Pride @Vladis @Kera