Dark Planet Day Challenge: Forumshire fanfic

Eldorion wrote:

Orwell wrote:Imagine if this was all put together on one thread. I could then visit it and read it unencumbered by all the silly Forumshiran comments?

That's what the table of contents in the first post is for. Just follow the link for each chapter and you can skip all the in-between stuff.

The thing is, Eldo, I like things in their right and proper order as you know, especially stories...

Yes, and that's exactly what the Table of Contents does, as I already explained.

Poor old Bree I kind of got a bit nostalgic there for a mo. sigh. No more eel wrangling for me.

I thought you wrangled eels for Odo? Or were his eels not worth the wrangling as I have long suspected?

But theres nothing like wrangling in Bree, Odo used to threaten to shut my shop up, but he never did. Its all bluster. I cant wrangle in the Shire, too many hygiene rules. I need a new occupation. Maybe I can flip Orwells cheese burgers.

This little tale has suffered a little. Trying to get going again, although it is a little slow as Taranis is refusing to help Freya with her scrying until I work out how to introduce some additional characters for them to talk to. Heres the next little bit.






The empty blue sky overhead was broken by tufts of white like the scraps of fleece left over after the carding and spinning was done. White patches, this time of tents, interrupted its flow as the sheet of blue fell to meet the land. The fair was in full swing; village elders, dressed as druids, met to complete the ancient rights in the stone circle, while craftsmen traded the goods they had prepared trough the cold dark months. Villagers were enjoying the feast day, with its break from monotony, gathered around endless small fires and sharing their midday meal whilst basking in the fresh clear day. Around them people moved endlessly enjoying the multitude of attractions and knots of people paused around the entertainers, attracted to the display as bees were to honey.

A huddled figure stood in the centre of one of these circles, clutching a rare and precious lyre, which he strummed occasionally as he sang one of the ancient tales, The Winter of the Wolves.

“With sunlight dying and autumn fled,
The water slowed and ceased to move,
Till the time did come when hunger drove,
The wolves did test its strength with their tread.”

Children sat around, mouths open in wonder, while many adults who had heard the tale often found themselves drawn to the hypnotic voice. A master bard was rare in these parts. The noise and flurry of the fair around seemed to fade away for those held tight within the grasp of the tales thrall.

Mirabel glanced around, eyes assessing the crowd. Many bright woollens and shiny shawl pins gave hope that many would give generously, Uncle really was on form today. She lent sideways, quietly pointing out individuals and families to her aunts, those who experience taught her were most likely to offer a token of appreciation.

A sudden discordant note had her scrunching into her shoulders in discomfort as her eyes flicked back to the centre of the circle. Instead of the harmless man, huddled in a self-absorbed trance as he played she saw an imposing figure, stood tall, shoulders squared as his eyes met those around him in disdainful challenge, the lyre forgotten and hanging from his hand.

“Drat!” she hissed, before pushing her aunt forward “Go! Act like this is planned.”

Without waiting to watch she pushed through the crowd behind her to their tent, ducking in long enough to collect her flute before forcing her way back again. Who could there possibly be on this barren hill top that would force their way through from the ether? It was always the same risk, when Uncle Ovid got lost in the music, it opened the way for the spirits, but the fair had seemed safe, far away from the village and no clear signs of springs or caves. Now to make sure no one thought it was real, that was the danger.

A quick glance at the surrounding faces showed little alarm, although one or two where creased in confusion. Kneeling before her husband Aunt Pomona made a show of hushing the already subdued crowd,

“Hush. We are lucky today; a spirit from beyond the veil,” she said as she reached out to gently guide Uncle out of the circle.

Mirabel took this cue and began to play her flute, the first haunting notes drifting into the clear blue as she claimed the centre of the ring. Aunt Bellona stepped up beside her and drew in a deep breath, but her opening words were drowned out as behind her Uncle Ovid sent his wife tumbling to the ground.

“I will not be hidden away and hurried out of sight.” He turned to face the crowd, an accusing finger turned slowly to each one there. “I was silenced in life, but the wrongs done here will not stay buried. Those who did lie and cheat should know that doom closes in upon them. Bran will be waiting when your time comes.”

Ovid froze as the final words left his lips, his eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth dropped open. The moment lengthened, all eyes riveted on the living statue until with a loud gasp the bard slumped once more into his huddled frame. Pomona picked herself up and shook the grass from her tunic before hurrying her husband away to the tent.

The silence was broken as all around people shook themselves out of their trance. Some laughed, others applauded or rolled their eyes in derision, but here and there some shouted angrily. More worryingly, a few whispered urgently to one and other, their gaze locked on the retreating figure and his consort.

Mirabel restarted her tune as her remaining aunt launched into ‘The Wandering Seer’. She watched as most of the crowd settled themselves once more to the entertainment whilst others hurried away, glancing furtively back at the tent. The family would be safe enough through the fair, but any chance of staying on a few days was gone; it was time to pack up for the next temporary shelter.

I love your intreptation of everyone. Must have more I really am liking this, it feels like I'm on a journey thats both familar and completely alien at the same time and I am enjoying that a lot. In a strange sort of a way it reminds me of the mood I used to get reading Burroughs.

Next little bit of isolation.

Eyes screwed tight against the glare of the morning sun, Mirabel drew her cloak tight around her shoulders. The early hour meant the sun had yet to drive the chill of night away. As she strode down the stony track for the village she ran through her list again. The fair had finished late in the night, a spectacular display of fire and ceremony that was all for show. Many of the villagers would sleep late today as a consequence of the free flowing ale and mead. She had a chance to grab supplies with little hassle and then get her family moved on before trouble woke to come and find them.

As the track reached the edge of the step the village slowly came into view. A brush fence enclosed a number of roundhouses, smoke curling from the roofs as families started their days. The head of the village was dominated by a new villa, where the headman and his household lived. To the left the brush fence bulged outwards to house the smithy and bakery at safe distance from the rest of the homes. Fire, while useful, could never be truly contained by man.

Mirabel made her way towards the smith leaning on the bellows and stoking his fire afresh, a thick leather apron bound tightly by thongs across his back. Reaching into the pouch she carried she lifted out the broken harness rings for the pony.

“Morning.” She hailed.

“That it is. What can I do for you?” the smith asked.

“Ring sheared. Could you fix it?”

“What you trading? He asked, brows furrowing.

Mirabel reached back into the pouch and removed a small bronze toggle, although they had collected a number of the new coins from their efforts at the fair she wanted to keep those for the journey. In unknown places it was best to appear a part of the new regime and not as a remnant of the old. The job of fixing the ring should not take long and the toggle a fair price. The smith sniffed as he nodded in agreement, hand dropping the bronze into the pocket on his apron before he lifted it to take the ring. He dropped it into the middle of the forge, turning to retrieve his tongs and push it deeper into the heart of the fire.

“It’ll take a while to soften,” he explained over his shoulder.

“I’ll return after I’ve finished the rest of my errands,” Mirabel replied.

The smith made no reply, returning to his position at the bellows, stoking the fire with intent.

Mirabel ducked across the small yard to the next open hut, here sheltering a bakery. She took in a deep breath, heavy with the aroma of baking wheat. It was rare they were near a bakery and she couldn’t resist the chance to have some this day. Wrapping her small loaves in a loose cotton cloth before stowing it away Mirabel returned to the main village.

She paused for a moment, looking carefully at each of the houses and the few people hurrying between them. Not long ago she would simply have asked where the medicine woman lived, but as distrust of the old ways grew, so did the hatred of any connected to it. Still, there must be one here, for despite all the hatred, not many in a village like this would trust their well-being to the new system when matters were dire.

Across the central street she saw a young boy pause as he checked those around him before ducking between a couple of houses and into the gap beyond.

Taking care to wander around as a visitor should Mirabel followed as he wove between half a dozen houses until he came to a small hovel built up against the brush fence. She paused in the shadows of the last house as the boy hurriedly collected a concoction leaving some meat for the dishevelled woman. As he ran off, away from this unsavoury association, Mirabel made her way forward.

“Greetings, may the elements ever guide us.” She said as she sat in front of the fire. Stormy grey eyes held her tight in their gaze as the woman peered closely, assessing and cataloguing.

“May they protect us and never take more than we can bear,” she replied at length.

Mirabel reached into her pouch and removed one of the loaves. Breaking it in half she offered a piece to her host. The old woman took her drinking bowl, steeping by the fire and split the brew into another bowl, topping both from the cauldron before offering one to her guest.

For long minutes both woman sat and ate, the only sound the crunch of the bread and trickle of liquid, the ancient custom enveloping then in quiet and stillness.

“What do you require my child?” the medicine woman asked when she had replaced her bowl.

“I come to offer herbs gathered on our journey.” Mirabel untied the sash from around her tunic, unfurling it to reveal many small packets of dried herbs, collected from wherever they travelled.

The old woman’s eyes caught on the parcels, searching eagerly. She spotted three or four that would replenish her specialist stocks. Warily, her eyes flicked up to meet Mirabel’s, confirming it was okay before reaching out. She turned parcels, fingers skimming along the selection, before picking one up and lightly crushing it in her fingers and lifting it to her nose, inhaling the pungent aroma.

“Trade?” she asked, eyes fixed on the parcels as she selected and tested them, dropping them back to the sash in turn.

“A gift from fellow healers I have met on my travels, I am merely the messenger.” Mirabel replied, saddened by its necessity. Such exchanges were as old as the craft.

“I have gift’s to share,” the old woman replied as she confidently choose three of the parcels and struggled to her feet, before shuffling into her hut. The sound of rummaging and quiet cursing preceded her return with a few cloth rags, string and a pile of dried spiky leaves.

“Belenus Tears,” she explained as her worn fingers hurriedly stripped small pile of leaves, wrapped them with care in cloth bindings and placed them on the sash.

“May I?” Mirabel asked, fingers reaching hesitantly. This was more than she had expected, in a small settlement where the observation of the old ways was now simply a source of entertainment and not a way of life. She had never seen the legendary leaves, infused with the healing power of their namesake. She took an offered sprig, caressing the leaves, soft with the silvery down that coated them and releasing a sweet smell.

“Keep them. Brew in water for bodily harms, crush to treat the spirit.”

Mirabel smiled and offered her thanks as she carefully tucked the spring into her pouch. She pushed herself upright, dusting her hands and clothes before reaching for her sash and carefully retying it and adjusting the strap over her shoulder. She ducked her head in farewell before turning on her heel and retracing her steps. Hurrying towards the main entrance, eager to collect her repairs and be gone, Mirabel began thinking through what she needed to do.

She failed to spot the thickset mountain of a man under the eaves of the second to last roundhouse, until he stepped forward, directly in her way. Her head jerked back as she spotted him and stopped, glancing over both shoulders. Any hope of avoiding this reception were dashed, either side she was being blocked in as two more townsman left the shadows. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the stale aroma as they surrounded her, none of these had yet made it home from the festivities of the night before. She struggled to repress a shudder at the thought of what may have kept them entertained so long.

“I know you,” the man in front told her, blowing sour breath across her face. Even as Mirabel shook her head in denial he continued. “Soothsayers girl, I saw you.”

“Thought she was with the bard.....,”

“Yeah and he channelled...fool.”

The argument behind her was accompanied by a dull thump and a sharp stare from her accuser. When he was sure that the shoving had finished he returned his gaze to Mirabel, stepping forward and towering over her. Her hasty step back was prevented and she found herself gazing up into three leering faces. She took a short gasp, desperately trying to think of any way to diffuse the situation and get away.

“We don't allow your nonsense and lies here. You better not be planning on sticking around.”

Mirabel puffed out a little of the air she held in tension, so just bully boys.. if she was lucky this should be over quick. She shook her head, trying to hunch in a little, eyes down to avoid antagonising her accusers.

“Leaving today,” she added quietly.

A hand shot out and grabbed her chin, lifting to meet an assessing gaze. Seemingly satisfied the townsman nodded once, dropping his hand and shifting aside just enough to let her through. Mirabel dropped her gaze and set off, before she had passed a hand shot out and gasped her elbow hard.

“We'll be up to check tonight,” came the growl in her ear before she was finally released.

Keeping her head down Mirabel rushed out into the main thoroughfare. Right, time to get the ring and be gone, away from the small minded and the suspicious.

I feared you had abandoned this Kafria- so glad you have not. It continues to intrigue and entertain in equal measure.
I just love the atmosphere you are creating in this and the way you are building it up and I'm really looking forward to seeing how you pull all the threads together. More please.

Yeah, what he said! More! More!

Whilst pointing this thread out to our new member Arwen it occured to me it was worth bumpjing it just to hassle Kafira- where's the next bit of your tale Kafria?- I was really enjoying it.
More, please. Pretty please with extra charcoal on top? (I assume Dragons like charcoal).