White

 Hey! Alice again. Not sure what Jillian is doing, but she should not have given me this password. I’ve got one of my own stories today, one that I’m calling White.

I strode down the halls unchallenged. In a world where the colour of your hair gave away your powers, no one challenged a blonde. Some servants even bowed as I walked past. Only a blonde could rule, and it was better safe than sorry.

The prison guards, just like the others, didn’t challenge me. If they had known what I was about to do, perhaps  they would’ve. Then again, they were self-serving men, considering their own miserable lives before those of the wretched prisoners they guarded. 

As I walked down the hall, it became harder and harder to breathe. The scent of stale urine and fear permeated the air. Uncomfortable, I scratched at my bare arms. My control was over the air itself, and this air was tainted. Mother often wondered why I didn't like to be inside.

Several prisoners stared as I walked past. A well-dressed lady was an oddity in this world of guards and wretches. Even more odd was the fact that my hair was cropped close too my head, though not so close I'd be robbed of my power. Fashion dictated that blonde hair was the height of style, and so anyone with naturally blonde hair grew it long, man or woman. 

Soon I was so far underground that I felt as though I was suffocating. Only my resolve kept me moving forward. Every cell in my body screamed to be back in the open air, to be free of the earth's depths. There was something I had to do first.

Finally, I reached the cell. The lanterns sputtered in dank air, water dripping somewhere I couldn't see. Inside the cell sat a young man. He was curled in one of the corners, his hair grown past his ears. It was the same length it had been when he was taken away. Malnourishment, then. I couldn't tell what colour his hair was under the grime, and his eyes were closed.

A sign on the door told me without a doubt that this was who I was looking for. It read, Extremely dangerous. Do not engage.

The air was slow to respond to my call, but it did. I fed a wisp of it through the bars in the cell door, sending it to ruffle his hair. Everything else that answered went into the lock, a focused blade of air that could cut through metal, a trick I'd used before.

On the surface, the door would've been open in a minute, lock split apart from the inside. This one took longer, because the air was stale. 

The man inside the cell looked up when he felt the wind on his face. His eyes widened in recognition, but his face twisted with fear. 

"You shouldn't be here, Lynn," he said. "You're doing exactly what they want."

"So? They can't stop me."

He stood up, keeping one hand against the wall. "Yes, Lynn, they can. Why do you think I'm down here? This is where you're weak."

The door swung open at last. I stepped toward him, grinning. "Obviously not that weak."

For a spilt second, his eyes locked onto something behind me. "But not strong enough," he whispered.

Someone grabbed me from behind, an arm wrapping around my throat, cutting off my breath. "Drystan," I choked out.

Slowly, he sank back to the floor in the corner. I was pulled away from the door, back into the corridor. Panicked, I reached out to the air, begging it to help me. It responded, but slowly. Black spots danced in front of my eyes and consumed my vision before I could even strike back.

*****

 Something was wrong. My head throbbed, and my skin burned. The air hung heavy around me, too heavy for me to call it. I tried to open my eyes, but there was something over my head.

A person walked in front of me, making the air move. If not for the disturbance his motion caused, I wouldn't have known where he was. 

"So you are the great Lynn Windstalker. Not so terrifying, are you?"

I struggled against the bonds around my wrists. They cut into my skin, tightening as I moved.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the man said. "That rope will tighten more if you struggle."

Fighting down my panic, I stilled. "Wh-what do you want with me?" I managed to ask.

"Right now? Nothing. Perhaps I'll think of somehow you can be useful to me. Until then, you'll stay here." He touched the sides of my face, pulling on the hood. I blinked in the sudden brightness, even though the cell wasn't that bright. 

The first thing I noticed was his hair. It was jet black. "You don't have any powers," I whispered.

"No, I don't. And yet you are the one laying on the floor, trussed like a turkey, completely at my mercy. Magic is a crutch, a tool for weak people to oppress the strong. Magic like yours has taught a race of lions to follow the lambs."

"I'm not weak," I replied.

"And yet you're here. I was able to catch you without getting a scratch. I've caught Drystan Voidmaker. And killed Amara Starlight. As I said, magic is a crutch." He bent down, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. "But not anymore."

I closed my eyes, concentrating. The air in the room was hot and heavy, useless. The breath coming from his mouth, on the other hand, was different. Carefully, I pulled it to me, coiling it around my wrists, where it sawed against the ties. He couldn't have noticed. No one misses their breath once it's been exhaled. 

He straightened before I could gather any more, stepping back. "I'll leave you here to think on your crimes, Lynn Windstalker. And to think on your punishment."

"Where's Drystan?" I asked, my voice stronger with hope.

"In a cell, same as you. But his is designed to exploit his weaknesses."

I didn't know Drystan had a weakness. But everyone has to.

"What are you going to do to him?"

"He will be an example. Drystan Voidbringer is the weakest of you all, and therefore his crutch is most impressive. Perhaps I'll kill him in the square."

"No," I whispered. "You can't."

"And why not, Lynn Windstalker? Who is going to stop me?"

"Me," I replied, drawing the air from him. This was different than merely taking what he exhaled. I controlled the air in his lungs, drawing it away. He fell to his knees, choking on his own breath.

The first breath of air cut through the ties, freeing my hands. I jumped to my feet, a little unsteady. 

"See," I bent over him, not releasing his breath. "I am not powerless. Far from it. And you do not control me. I can kill you with a thought. Remember that."

He glared at me.

"But, unlike you, I am merciful. You will live to feel the humiliation of losing to me."

I strode out of the cell, releasing him once the door closed behind me.

Once I was back in the hall, I searched for Drystan as long as I dared. But I couldn't find him. Whoever the man had been, he'd taken me out of the castle.

Drystan would have to wait. The fresh air called to me.

***** 

Mother walked through the tall grasses, her red hair streaming behind her. "Lynn!" she called. 

I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk right now.

"Lynn, where are you?"

She would've walked right past me, but one of the winds I'd sent to find Drystan returned in a hurry, hot and weak. Destroyed, somehow.

"Hello, Mother," I said, sitting up.

"There you are! Didn't you hear me calling?"

The wind pressed against me, begging to be released. It felt wrong.

I called it to my face, breathing it in. Drystan immediately came to mind, chained in a dark cell. Coughing suddenly, I bent double, sending the wind away to disperse.

"Lynn!" Mother looked worried.

"The wind," I gasped out, filling my lungs with fresh air. "It was broken, somehow. But it found Drystan."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere wind can't touch."

"I thought wind could go everywhere."

"So did I," I whispered.

"Are you going to look for him?"

"I don't see how I can, Mother. They've taken the cities, and that's where he'll be. There isn't even anyone to help me. We were a minority before, but the crown protected us. Now..." I shuddered, not wanting to finish the thought.

"So you're going to let your best friend die?"

"There isn't anything I can do, Mother. I can't find him." Tears gathered in my eyes. "He was captured because of me, Mother. This is my fault."

She sat down beside me. "Don't talk like that. It's not your fault."

"He was protecting me."

"That was his choice. You need to let him have the dignity of it."

"But what if he dies? That will be my fault."

"Lynn, stop. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. My generation, anyway. We are the ones that oppressed the powerless. And now we leave our children to deal with it."

"But we can't, Mother. We're not strong enough."

"Then you need to survive, to get strong enough, to learn from our mistakes. Don't give up."

One of the children came running toward us. "Lady Lynn!" she called, "Lady Lynn, come quick!"

"What is it, Moriah?"

"Lord Drystan is in the village. Someone has him tied up. I think the man is going to hurt him."

I jumped to my feet, heart in my mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Lady Lynn."

"Thank you, Moriah. Now, I want you to stay here, all right? The town isn't safe."

She nodded, staring at me with wide eyes. 

I turned away, calling every wind I could reach. They lifted me into the air, a skill that had taken years and about fifty broken bones to master. If anyone was going to reach the village on time, I would.

A crowd was gathered around a stage, around two people. One I recognized and one I knew from my nightmares. Drystan and the man who had captured him.

"Lynn Windstalker!" the man called out when he saw me. "I see you've come to watch your friend die."

"Not likely," I replied. 

"Get out of here, Lynn!" Drystan screamed, "Go! Save yourself!"

I floated to the ground, my hair flaring. I'd let it grow since escaping. "I'm not leaving," I replied. "I left you behind once. Never again."

The man smiled, an expression that sent fear running through me. "Just as foolish as I thought you'd be, Windstalker. But you'll both die here."

He nodded to someone I couldn't see, and suddenly the air around me stilled. I reached for it, but it was like it wasn't there at all.

Panicking, I looked around. A young woman was staring at me, frowning with concentration.

"You see, Lynn Windstalker," the man said, coming closer. "Those with black hair are not powerless. Rather, they are the most powerful of all. Black is the colour that consumes all other colours, the absence of light. Black also consumes magic. Your friend here felt it first. One look from Inesa, and he was weak as the day he was born. That is what is happening to you. You are powerless to stop me."

"Why?" I whispered to the girl. "Why would you do this?"

"You murdered my parents," she replied, eyes narrowing.

"That can't be true," I said, taking a step toward her. It felt strange to not have the constant touch of the air, to not have each touch of the wind call to me. "I would remember."

"Clearly, you don't. Perhaps because you were young."

"Discovering your inner monster is fascinating, Lynn Windstalker, but it’s time to finish what your ancestors started.”

He drew a wicked-looking knife, with a serrated edge. Meant to kill, for sure, but to cause as much pain as possible before you died.

All I could do was watch as he bent over Drystan, my friend’s chest heaving with fear. In a second, the heaving stopped, black blood pouring onto the stage.

“No!” I screamed, reaching for my magic, hoping desperately that there was something I could do.

“This is your fault, Lynn Windstalker,” the man said, cleaning his knife. “I want you to always remember that you were the one who brought about Drystan Voidmaker’s death.”

I fell to my knees.

“Now run, weakling, before I decide to kill anyone else.”

I stumbled out of the village, tears streaming from my eyes.

The end!

Happy New Year, everyone! Maybe Jillian will be back next week. We’ll see.

Thoughts of a Salvage

 Hey hey hey! Alice here. Jillian is a little busy this week, what with things like Christmas and family and whatnot, so she asked me to write this post for her.

So, instead of Writing Tips or Jack’s story, you are getting a little bit of random weirdness that I like to call Thoughts of a Salvage. In case you were wondering, that’s me.

Anyway, here we go.

I was looking at Pinterest, theoretically for writing inspiration for a character that is more complicated than I thought she would be, and I stumbled across something amazing. I’d post the actual thing, but, like I said, Jillian is busy and it’s her job to track down authors and creators. The quote is, in a nutshell “To do the impossible, you need to ignore the popular.”

Just thought that was fantastic advice for a writer, because if you try to follow the crowd and do what they do, you’ll never stand out. Writing is about challenging preconceptions, going against the norm. Stories are an extremely powerful tool for change. A well-told story will always convince more people than a reasoned argument. That’s because people are hardwired to pay more attention to stories.

That is also why people hide behind masks and Instagram filters. Another quote (from the Joker) says that if you “give a man a mask and he will show his true self.” which is also true. Once people feel as though you don’t know who they are, they are immediately more comfortable to say what they really think, which is why cyber bullying is such a huge problem. People are easier to lie to when you don’t have to see their faces or pay the consequences for lying.

Wow. Nothing like going for a short wading session and ending up with the water at your neck. Didn’t mean to get so deep for my first post (third if you include the stories Jillian kidnapped).

Aanyway, got to go. Have a good week, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

Blood and Ash

 Hey! Here's that story from Alice, because Pandora is more than a little stuck. Maybe next week you'll meet the gladiator she hates so much. Otherwise Jack has something new.

So. Alice told me this story was loosely based on the Legend of Zelda gaming universe, though I couldn't tell when I read it over.

Without further ado, Blood and Ash.

Ten thousand years of searching, he thought, And still no trace of her. 

Ten thousand years. The world had changed since the day he had started his search, since he was charged with the sacred duty of finding the Queen's Granddaughter. Back then, he'd ridden a horse, or walked, or begged farmers for rides in their wagons. Ships hadn't even begun crossing the oceans, or the airplanes that made weeks of travel into nights, or even hours.

And the collapse. If not for the protection spells he had learned on his long search, he would've been ripped apart by the creatures that came from the seas, from the outer reaches of space. Humanity had fought them off, but only barely. They'd been forced to destroy their own infrastructure when it was discovered that the creatures fed off the strange information sharing system that had been called the internet. 

Ten thousand years is a long time, and he was starting to feel it. Though spells and magic would keep his body young until he completed his search, his mind felt the fatigue. Years of trekking across the earth had taken their toll, and he no longer had the energy or will to complete the mission he had been so eager to begin.

But the Queen waited for him. She, too, was immortal until her granddaughter was found. Until there was a successor for her line.

When her daughter disappeared into the streams of time during a routine training session, the Queen outlawed time travel, in an effort to safeguard the lives of those under her. But she hadn't anticipated the magic of the throne, which kept her and her entire court alive long past the time they should've perished. A successor would be the only thing to free them from eternity.

"Excuse me, sir," a young woman approached him, her steps slow, her arms and legs impossibly thin. "Do you have any food to spare?"

He stared at her, wondering why she had chosen him to approach. Though he took care to keep himself clean, his clothes were in the same shape hers were, and his beard and hair was wild and unkempt. When humanity was fighting for survival, no one cared about neatness. The combs had been melted in an attempt to drive the aliens back. Some hogwash about the build-up of oil from human skin, or something like that. However, it had worked, but it meant men and women were paying more for a single comb than most earned in a year.

Slowly shaking his head, he walked on, careful not to trip on any of the rough patches or cracks in the pavement. 

At least she had asked. The last group had tried to threaten him with a knife.

Finally, it got too dark to keep walking, so he sat down next to one of the buildings. Ash from volcanic activity meant that the temperature stayed pleasantly warm, even after the sun went down.

As he drifted in and out of sleep, his home called to him. His queen called to him.

"Doran," she said, standing before him. She looked as beautiful as the day he'd left, as the dawn and summer sky. "Please, you must hurry."

"I'm trying, my queen," he replied, bowing low.

"We run out of time. The fatigue is setting in, and more are falling asleep. I fear that we will not live to see a new monarch on the throne."

When he dared to meet her eyes, he saw the same ache that plagued him. Their minds wanted to rest.

"I'll find her," he said, his resolve strengthened. "I swear it."

With that, he woke. 

"Hey, old man." A group of ragtag children stood around him, led by a scrawny teenager.

"Leave me alone," Doran whispered, feeling a pang of fear. Even with his protection spells, an altercation with this group could be messy.

"We would, except Poppy here recognized you. Said you were in her mother's stories."

Doran stared at the girl that the teen had indicated. All these years, and she woke him up? He could see the irony of the situation.

"She recognized me?"

"Are you hard of hearing? That's what I said."

Slowly, Doran stood up, holding his arms out with his palms up to show that he wasn't armed. "Who was her mother?"

"How are we supposed to know? She died when Poppy was little, barely old enough to fend for herself."

So the Princess was dead. That was why Doran had been sent to find the Queen's Granddaughter.

"Was she killed in the Collapse?"

Poppy nodded, staring at him with suspicious eyes. 

"But you remember me from her stories?"

"Mother said that I would meet a man who looked like a wolf, a man who would steal me away from everything I loved."

Doran breathed a sigh of relief. It would be so much easier to take the girl away if she'd been prepared. He thanked the spirit of the Princess for understanding that.

"Did she tell you where I would take you?"

"To a court of pretenses and lies. But I'm not going anywhere."

"Why not?"

"Because this is my home, and I am with my family. There isn't anywhere you could take me that would be better than this."

"Oh, but there is," Doran replied, stepping toward her. "The place I come from is a land of magic and mystery, with lush meadows and sparkling cities."

The scrawny teen laughed. "And you, old man, are crazy. Magic is a lie, a trick to make weak minds follow. You'll not fool us."

"Please, let me show you," Doran said. Poppy shrank back, not letting him touch her.

"No. Mother said that if I went with you, I would die."

That made Doran stop. Princess Carlina had been a powerful seer. Perhaps the accident hadn't been a...

Mentally, he shook himself. He was being paranoid. Years away from the court had drained his memory of the beauty of it.

"That's not true," he finally said, "Where I come from, you are a princess. You are the next ruler of our court."

Now the children stared at him. As much as they tried to deny it, they'd all dreamed of being royalty, of having someone come and whisk them away from the poverty and hunger that was their daily lot.

"You should go, Poppy," one of the girls whispered. "Go with him, and then come back for us."

Poppy stared at the girl, her red hair shining like a beacon. "I will, but only so I can take you away from here."

She stepped forward and took Doran's hand. In a blink, they stood in the center of the court, surrounded by courtiers. But something wasn't right.

Doran stared around, trying to put his finger on it, ignoring the men and women who exclaimed over him and Poppy. Try as he might, the change eluded him.

"Dearest Granddaughter!" the Queen exclaimed, parting the crowd like her silvery hair. "Oh, I'm so happy you're safe. Where is your mother?"

"She didn't live through the Collapse." Poppy seemed to be taking the change extraordinarily well, looking around curiously.

"That's unfortunate," the Queen whispered, standing silent for a few moments. "But all is well, because you have returned home. Please, dear Granddaughter, come sit on my throne. Take your rightful place as our queen."

Poppy looked nervous as she walked forward. The throne was an ornate affair, woven from a living tree. This meant that it was always growing and changing, though there were servants who were tasked with making sure it didn't grow too quickly. Each year, the tree was carved with a new pattern that attached to the old, meaning that it bore an intricate growth chart on its branches.

With no small amount of effort, Poppy managed to climb into the throne, which stood nearly as tall as she did. After a bit of shifting to get comfortable, she sat perfectly still.

Doran stared at her as she seemed to fade. Her youth vanished, until she was bend and twisted, her red hair now a muted shade of silver, her face lined and worn. The Queen seemed to grow younger, her mind suddenly rejuvenated.

He felt it too. The fatigue that had tormented him for so long seemed to lift. Doran felt young again.

Poppy screamed on the throne as she faded further, her fingers falling to dust as she stared.

Around him, the court itself got brighter, sucking away Poppy's life in order to preserve itself.

Falling to his knees, Doran retched. His stomach presented him with the small bits of food he had managed to scrounge that morning.

"No," he gasped out as Poppy melted away. "NO!"

"You have done well, Doran," his Queen knelt next to him, the woman he had given ten thousand years of his life to. "Your court and people thank you."

"Why?" he whispered, staring at her.

"Because I do not want to die," she replied. "Immortality was something I've always desired, which is why I cast Carlina into the streams of time. With any luck, the girl would die before you found her. But I never counted on the fatigue."

The Queen rambled on and on, though Doran wasn't listening. Instead, his hand grasped something within the tattered fabric of his cloak, a weapon that he should never have found. A weapon that he'd kept, though he didn't know the reason why.

Moving with a speed he didn't remember, he plunged the knife into the Queen's chest, pulling her life force out with it. She collapsed immediately, and the court began to crumble and shake.

"Death is not something to be feared," he whispered to her still body. "Death is a friend. Death means that we can rest."

And in moments, the court that had been home to the most powerful sorcerers since time began collapsed.

Thanks for reading! Have a good week!

Writing thoughts

 All right. Pandora is not finished with Medusa’s story yet (something about a gladiator interfering and meddling where he’s not wanted. I wasn’t about to argue.) so I’ve got some writing thoughts for you. Not enough to really be called a writing tip, but I still think it’s good information.

All right, here we go.

First of all, series. Often, fantasy writers seem to think that a series is better than a stand-alone, hands down. I actually disagree. Often, for me, anyway, I’ll read a stand-alone before a series, simply because of the time involved. I can read a 300 page book in about an hour, with no interruptions. When you have a series of ten 300 word books, that’s a time commitment of more than a normal working day. Don’t get me wrong, I like to both read and write a book series. But your reader is lending you their time and attention and expecting to enjoy that time spent in your world. If your series is getting stale, consider ending it.

Second, your characters. Too often, writers will have side characters that appear for two or three scenes, then disappear into the pit of Despair, never to be seen again. I am definitely guilty of this. Make sure that each character has a satisfactory character arc (this means the ones that have effect on the story, not necessarily the barkeep). It helps to imagine them each as the protagonist of their own story.

Here’s one that I’ve had thrown at me a few times, regarding something that really threw me before I really understood this concept. Know the difference between professional proof readers and beta readers. Both are extremely valuable, but sometimes you get advice from beta readers who are trying to act like professionals. For example, in Unidentified, one of my beta readers asked me why Katelynn was so brave. I obsessed over this relatively minor thing (though it seems major) until one of my other friends asked me why it mattered. It doesn’t, because the beta reader was taking that character trait out of context. The way the book is written means that it jumps back and forth between the past and present, and the character traits she learned in the past influence the beginning of the story. A professional proof reader would’ve read the whole story and seen that, rather than making notes as they went along, like my beta reader was doing.

Just some thoughts. Pandora might be done her story by Friday, and if she’s not, Alice mentioned having something I can post.

Thanks for reading and have a good week!