Z is for Zoe

Zoe here. I’ve been knocking about my author’s imagination for years, until she decided to put into one of her Works In Progress. Plus, give me the opportunity to chase after Rhane and get involved in a roleplaying game that’s larger than life. Not that I’m complaining about either. 

Here’s a little example of what I’m up to in ‘The Players Are the Thing’. 

“Rhane.” Beatrix didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Irritation radiated out from her, making the air prickle with her displeasure. “My character sheet is wrinkled.”

Rhane didn’t say anything. The wrong word could change that prickle into knives. 

“No, it’s not,” Zoe said. The aggression in her voice sliced through the sharpness in the air, intensifying it. “That’s not your character sheet. That’s a page from a journal.” 

Y is for Ylynessa

No need to stare. Yes, I’m quite impressive. Indeed, I’m the sister of the Earl of Caerac Keep. All right, that’s a lie. You’ll find I’m the most important person you’ll ever meet in this miserable Cauldron. I have ideas which will revolutionize the walled city I’m contained within, transforming the entire world. If only my blockhead of an author will finish my story! Yes, ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’ is *my* story. Not Rhodry’s, not Ariadne’s, not even sweet Faith’s. Read on. See a little of the part I play in it. 

“Are you speaking of the theory of sacred spaces, milady?” I asked. I lowered my gaze to Lady Ylynessa’s ring. Why she only wore one, when Lady Augusta had worn about eight, I wasn’t sure. 

“It’s more than just a theory, Rhodry,” Ylynessa said. Her voice lost some of its nervousness. “The Unicorn shows herself in perfect order, in geometrical forms.” She leaned a little closer to the clerical acolyte. “Isn’t that right, my dear Faith?”

X is for Xylanthe

Why, hello there. How nice it is to have visitors. I get them so seldom in the Dark Circle…only I’m not in the Dark Circle. I’m at the Cauldron of Eternal Inspiration. Ah, well, please do come by to visit. Don’t be frightened by the snippet I appear in in ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’. Truly, my author makes me sound much worse than I actually am. 

Cobwebs dangled like trailing lace from every corner. Xylanthe tried to give the Dark Circle a certain elegance. Not that it was what it used to be. 

“I miss adventurers,” she said out loud. She glanced up at the boots of the last would be hero, hanging out of a cocoon in the ceiling. “Treasure hunting killers meant regular meals whenever they attacked.” She sighed. “I haven’t eaten in weeks!”

“You shall, my lady.” Her servant’s whisper was like a caress upon her arm, although her servant was far away. “I’m preparing a feast for you. More than just a feast.”

W is for William

Really, I don’t see why I should have to summoned away from my Keep to this Cauldron! I’m a busy man! Yes, I’m Lord William Caerac, hence ‘W for William’. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to share some of the troubles I’m having at Caerac Keep. In fact, this is why the story I’m in is called ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’. It’s a Work In Progress, which means my troubles are far from over. Go on. See what I have to deal with in the snippet below. It’s from Rhodry’s perspective, not mine. Not that the child can truly appreciate what I go through every night in this walled city, but go ahead and see. 

 The earl twitched a corner of his mouth. Things weren’t as simple as they’d once been. Monsters used to be monsters. A noble could hire a party of adventurers to hunt them down and kill them. Alas, adventurers tended to hunt and kill anything in their path to acquire weapons, treasure, etc. Not to mention they smashed up the local tavern every time they visited. 

“Instead, you’re sending some tender young things to lure out the hungry undead.” Ansel arched his own eyebrow at the earl. His was thin, golden, and lacked the winged flourish of Lord William’s. “I’m not fool enough not to recognize this strategy.”

“I’m counting on you not being one,” Lord William retorted. He began to pace up and down his study’s floor. “Not everyone believes in the undead, my dears.”

V is for Varwyth

A lovely evening to you all. Varywyth here, just enjoying another beautiful night. No, I fear they’re not always beautiful. Especially if you don’t have the right person to share them with. I can get quite lonely, which is why I joined up with some bright young things to try and figure out who’s making people disappear at Caerac Keep. Certain residents are saying this is the work of the Vampire Corwyth. 

How very, very interesting. Which is why I’ve joined my delectable Rhodry and his new companions in investigating these disappearances. Someone is invoking the name of the undead. The undead are a special interest of mine. 

“Rhodry.”

The name sent a cold shiver, gliding straight down my spine. Faith stiffened and made a fist. Both of us turned to face the speaker. 

Varwyth sat with his face covered by a dark hood. It didn’t hide his pale, beardless chin or his close lipped smile. “It’s been entirely too long.”

U is for Undine

Too much of my tale was revealed last year in ‘Blogging From AZ’. My story has not changed, although I can only reveal so much to Faith in ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’. I’m reaching out to her, hoping she’ll realize I’m trapped, but I can only touch her dreams.

Picture the water running in rivulets down the walls of a cave, slowly eroding the rock. If only I was in such a cavern. The truth is too horrible to accept, so help me reinforce this image, weeping inside my prison…

Faith opened her eyes with difficulty. Her eyelashes were sticky with tears.

“I get those dreams, too.” Ariadne regarded her, resting her head against her palm. “My sister is trapped somewhere, crying for me.” She lowered her eyes to stare at the expanse of the pallet between them. “I awaken before I glean the faintest clue as to where she is.”

“This wasn’t Charity,” Faith shivered in the darkness. “At least I hope it wasn’t.”

“Who was it?” Ariadne lifted her head to fix her dark, gleaming eyes on the other woman. “Another prisoner of whatever is taking people?”

“Worse.” Faith thought of the water trickling down the rock, trying to escape. “A slave.”

T is for Thomas

What are you staring at, you freak? You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t one. Well, guess what? I’m not one of you. I never will be. I’m just going to stay where I am. I don’t care what my stupid writer tries to make me do. I’m Thomas and I’m human. I’m staying right here, not going anywhere. Like I’ve got anywhere to go. Do you think I’d be in ‘A Godling for Your Thoughts?’ if I had someplace better to be? Look at where I am!

“No rest for wicked children!” the teacher chittered. “Not after all the naughty things you did when you were alive!”

How Thomas longed to pick up a rock and throw it at the stupid instructor! He would have done it, if he could. How many squirrels’ head had he smashed in with a rock?

Danyell swallowed his own sickness at the pitiless vision of small, smashed bodies, their innards leaking out like jam. If he’d been awake, he would have thrown up. 

If he’d been awake, he wouldn’t be in Thomas’s dream. 

S is for Seraphix

Why, hello there. Do you have a wish you’d like granted? Perhaps you’ll find a coin resting in your hand. It’s me, manifesting as your desire. Shall I give you an example of this? Here’s a little example from ‘A Godling for Your Thoughts?’

“You don’t have to accept this.” Seraphix’s whisper caressed Thomas’s decayed ear, seeping into what was left of him. “You don’t have to accept any of this.”

Ah, but Seraphix sounded like Oleander, the Oleander who should have been! Sweet and gentle, laced with a delicate poison, even as he killed you. Had Oleander ever been real?

“You can make him real.” Seraphix’s words slid into his hand, like a small, metal coin. “You can become everything you wish to be.”

R is for Rhane

Oh, are you really here? I sometimes can’t tell what’s real and what’s imaginary. No, I’m just kidding! Of course I can! I’m just usually thinking about Amberwyne and the game. It’s always there at the back of my mind. When I don’t want to deal with Beatrix, Mona, or I need to escape from this world, it’s there. Only I think my character is getting all too real. She’s starting to wonder why I let Beatrix treat me the way I do, why I don’t stand up for myself. I always play Amber standing up for herself. She doesn’t understand why I don’t do the same. This is the premise of my author’s Work In Progress, ‘The Players Are the Thing’. A group of characters in a roleplaying game become entirely too real. Only they want to try to play their players, help them work out some of the messes in their lives. After all, their players have always done their best by them, investing their heart and soul in them. Where did that crazy idea come from? Our characters are just characters, no matter how much we might love them. Still, Amber might have a point about my life. I really don’t like dwelling on it too much and I’m the one living it. Here’s a little bit about me. 

“I don’t have all day!” Rhane tried not to flinch at the whip crack in Beatrix’s voice. “I have work tonight, so I have to finish up this scenario.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Rhane said, surprised at her own assertiveness. No, not her own. Amberwyne’s. 

Only you created me. My strength exists in you. You just need to find it and claim it. 

“I can’t,” Rhane murmured, unaware that she was speaking out loud. “You’re what I wish I could be, not what I am.”

Q is for Quartz

Quartz here. Yes, I’m back for all of my author’s attempts to lock me up in a crystal coffin and forget me. Let’s this be a lesson to all you characters. If your author ignores you, if she pushes you aside for other projects, deadlines, blah, blah, don’t stop pounding on her imagination! Keep at her, until she spends time with you! I never let up on my fool of a writer and look here! She gave in, for all that she was ‘busy’! She started writing me a story!

Here’s a little teaser from my triumph, my personal WIP, ‘The Cottage and the Cuckoo’. Eh? What kind of a fool title is that?!

“Now!” I snapped. “Tell me what you want, plain and simple! I’ve already guessed what you are, a singing sprite, some sort of kin to the gremlins!”

“Oh, very clever dwarf!” The little man cackled, but his beady eyes narrowed with anger. “Here I was, willing to offer you a home, but you’ve taken my book!”

“You took my brothers’ will!” I growled. “You were forcing them to march and sing!”

“A little song does all living creatures good.” He stared at the book in my hands. “Return my People of Interest to me at once, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, no,” I said. I held the book tight against your chest. “You see, I know how it works with your kind. The only way to make a bargain with you is to have something you want.”

“You know nothing of what I want!” the creature hissed. “However, yes, I will be willing to bargain with you.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “What do you want, dwarf?”

P is for Phaedra

Um, hello down there? I’m not entirely sure where I am right now, although I’m never far from the Timea. I’m Phaedra, main character in ‘A Symposium in Space’. Yes, this short f/f science fiction story was inspired by Plato’s classic. It was also published in an anthology, although my author got the rights back. Now, I’m not entirely sure what my author is going to do with me and my story. A possible home may have turned up, so keep your fingers crossed!

In the meantime, here’s a little about me, sharing my notions of love in a sample from ‘A Symposium in Space’. 

“Well, I don’t think love is limited to simply a passion for a person,” I began, fumbling for the right words. I glanced at Sokrat for inspiration. She cocked her head, every so slightly to the side. One of her side whiskers rested on her shoulder. “Love can manifest in more varied forms than that.”

“No doubt your definition of love would include extensions of a person,” Pausania said.  Her mouth turned down in a cruel twist. It was one of those times I couldn’t tell, if she was smiling, or not. Once, we’d shared a mutual contempt for life givers, who loved their ships too much. “Such as an inanimate object you can simply project your own self love upon.”

“Such as a spaceship,” I said, saying out loud what she’d only hint at. “Such extensions are, it’s true, a form of self love. By learning to love one’s self, as well as laugh at one’s own folly, you grow, change, and become wiser. You learn to be more patient and tolerant of others, rather than simply looking down at them.”

O is for Oleander

No need to stare. I already know I’m lovely. You might want to keep your distance, though. There’s a reason I’m named after a poisonous flower. My source was pure poison, the little beast. He created me from his memories of another, memories which might or might not be true. Memories of his Oleander. Come and relive those memories with me in ‘A Godling for Your Thoughts?’ Try not to shudder when you do. It will get ugly. 

He sneaked a glance at Oleander. Once, the other boy had had blue black locks of hair, falling over a clear brow. Long lashes had fluttered over violet eyes, which narrowed in scorn at the sight of Thomas. 

“Don’t call me pretty.” Oleander sneered at the fat boy with bat ears. “The last thing I want is a troll like you to think I’m pretty.”

Like Oleander could ever be pretty. Boys didn’t do pretty. His father had beaten this fact into him when he’d been stupid enough to mention Oleander. 

“What kind of a mama’s boy did I raise?” He’d brought his belt down on Thomas’s behind. “Boys aren’t pretty!” The leather had slapped against his bare skin. “Say it!” 

Thomas had squirmed. Pain had tingled through his bare skin, but not just pain. Oh, he was bad! An ugly little monster, like everyone said. 

“Say it, you halfling freak!” Such a repulsive face, distorted with disgust. The sins of the father lived in the son.  “Say it, until you mean it!”

“Boys aren’t pretty.” Thomas had managed to stammer between swollen lips. 

His father had scowled at him. His round, ruddy face was nothing like Jupitre’s. Thomas didn’t care. Who’d want that father? He’d slapped the cruel facts into his skin. Boys who couldn’t fight back were beaten. Boys could never be pretty. 

Boys broke and smashed things that were pretty. 

“What are you staring at?” Oleander asked. Formerly full lips were rotting and hanging off of his teeth. Empty eyesockets stared back at Thomas. Oleander was dead, like everyone else here. “Do you still think I’m pretty?” 

N is for Nathalie

Hello, Nathalie here. Although I’m not sure where here is. Nor am I sure exactly where I am. My author has been very mysterious about my fate. I was a major part of Grace and Maia’s lives, but I disappeared. How is one to know what’s going on, when your writer keeps leaving your story in limbo to work on other projects? Here’s a little of what she has written about me in our Work In Progress; ‘Wind Me Up, One More Time’. It’s from Grace’s perspective, since this Grace’s story. I might have told a very different tale. 

“Who’s the artist?” I asked, staring at the bits of metal. Every piece had an angry gleam, which clashed against the other metal bits.

“Iama the Terrible,” Nathalie said, emphasizing each syllable with slow relish. 

“Terrible, terrible woman,” the other girl said, touching her forehead with a shiver. “Once she was an artist, but tragedy happened. She was a success.”

“It changed her,” Nathalie said with a slow nod. “Everything she touched starting turning to gold, including people.”

“Really?” I asked, staring at the statue with wide eyes. It was rather terrible. It made sense that someone terrible had made it.

Nathalie’s lips twitched when her eyes met the girl’s. The stranger allowed herself a secret smile, which she shared with Nathalie. Not me. 

“What’s so funny?” I asked, afraid of what the answer would be. 

“Grace, this *is* the artist,” Nathalie said. She shot a quick glance at the small, silver placard at the base of the statue. “Meet Maia, otherwise known as the clockwork girl.” 

M is for Map

Hmmph, look at all of you, gaping an old lady like that. Don’t you have anything better to do? Fine. You insist on reading a snippet of story. Here’s one from ‘The Hand and the Eye of the Tower’. It’s not my tale, but the twins. I do have a part to play in it, not that I’m going to discuss the details. Now, sit down! If you’re going to stick around, I might as well get you something. Oh, that’s right. We’re in not at my cottage right now. We’re in our author’s Cauldron. Not that this is what I’d call a proper Cauldron…oh, never mind! Just read!

Map waddled towards Danyell and Dayell, leaving an open door behind her. She filled the air with the solid comfort of her stocky presence and their ears with the demanding swish of her skirts against the grass. “Weren’t you listening to me? I’ve been calling you!” 

“You have?” Danyell gasped. He glanced back at the hill. The face was gone. Only moss and stone looked back from the ruin. 

L is for Leiwell

Hello, I’m Leiwell. Regardless of how Quartz may regard me, my only crime is my loyalty. Loyalty to my family, to my master, and the halfling race. Not that he matters what he or anyone else thinks of me. All that matters are the three things I care about. Alas, sometimes those dearest to me completely misunderstand my intentions. Or they have too much faith in me. Danyell falls into the latter category, as you’ll see in the snippet below. Please enjoy this moment with my family in ‘The Hand and the Eye of the Tower’. Such times have become all the more precious to me. 

“Did you see something in the tower?” Leiwell lowered his eyelashes, hiding the expression in his green eyes. The smile returned to his lips. “This brings back memories.”

“How did you know?” Danyell asked, a bit awed at his older brother’s perceptiveness. Not that Leiwell wasn’t clever that way. He had a gift for guessing what others held in their hearts. 

K is for Kevin

Hello, there! Welcome to the Tipsy Hedgehog…wait a minute, we’re not at the Tipsy Hedgehog? We’re in a Cauldron? By the Unicorn, this is a strange one, no mistake. I’m here to offer a snippet of a story from a tale called ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’. Yes, you see your shares of troubles when you work in a tavern. This particular breed was golden haired, entirely too pretty, and travelling with some fairly frightful companions. The tale is truly his to tell, although I’m rather keen to discover he still remembers me! (blushes)

“Hello, Kevin.” I recognized the barkeep’s ruddy face, sprinkled with freckled, his snubbed nose. They hadn’t changed from when he was a child. “You’ve grown up quite a bit since I last saw you.”

“Unicorn bless me!” His green eyes widened as they moved over my face. He took a step back from the bar. “You! You haven’t aged at all since when I first saw you, all those years ago!”

“Time moves slowly in the Library,” I said, trying to be gentle. Not to seem some scary immortal who’d descended to suck the blood from everyone in the bar. 

I’m not sure how convicing I was. Kevin’s mouth opened and shut, but his lips continued to quiver. 

J is for Jupitre

What are you staring at? There was a time I could have hit right between the eyes with a thunderbolt for your insolence! Fine, you don’t believe me. No one does. Why would you? I’m nothing but a grizzled old man stuck amidst a collection of freaks trying to build their own village. Why do they bother? This location never works out for settlers. Not that you’d convince Ashleigh of that. Comely wench, but quite uppity. Thinks she can plan everything, she and the women settling here. Like it will ever work. She can’t even manage her own family. You don’t believe me? Take a look for yourself at ‘A Godling for Your Thoughts?’!

“Danyell! Dayell!” Ashleigh shouted, waving at them from the rooftop. “Everyone, look! Here are my boys!”

A man with a broad, craggy face turned away from the board he’d just set in place. 

“Here they are,” Jupitre rumbled without any enthusiasm. He stared down at the twins without any trace of a smile on his face. 

At least he no longer shouted at them or worse. Danyell’s tiny hand had been quite persuasive in discouraging that kind of behavior. 

I is for Iama

It’s strange. I used to joke about being Iama the Terrible, when I chased Grace around like a girl, cackling like a melodramatic villain. Nathalie would always clap her hands and tell me I had a gift for acting. I shouldn’t let it go to waste. 

Now, Nathalie is gone. I no longer think of myself as Iama. I’m just Maia now, constantly working, trying to support myself. Grace still thinks of me as Iama. I’m more Iama to her than I ever was when I used to pretend I was an evil sorcerer, luring my victims into a tower where I turned them all into statues. I’m not sure where ‘Wind Me Up, One More Time’ is going. It’s still a Work in Progress. I’m not sure what to make of Grace’s vision of me. This story is from her perspective. If it were telling this tale, it would be quite different. However, I no longer tell tales, not even snippets. Here is a little of Grace’s. 

There’s was a reason I thought of Maia as Iama the Terrible. I just didn’t dare to call her that to her face, not even in my thoughts. Very little of my Maia remained in the creature sitting in her chair, not smiling, not even enjoying her work. 

“What is it you want me to learn?” I asked. I used my most adult voice. It still came out squeaky.

“To act like a grown up,” she said. She fixed her pale hazel eyes upon me. Even they were turning into gold. 

H is for Hector

Tremble, enemies of the fairest of cities, for I am Hector, its foremost and mightiest prince! You see me in lonely exile, banished to this lonely Cauldron, away from my brother and other characters from my tragic tale, ‘Aissa and Polyxena’. 

(A voice comes all the way from inspirationcauldron.wordpress.com, “It’s my tale, not his! Hector pays no attention to the voice.)

A lord in my lofty position bears many burdens, not the least are my wayward and self brothers. Paris is enough to try the patience of any man, but Troile, I fear, is starting to follow his bad example. See for yourself in this snippet of ‘Aissa and Polyxena’. 

“Achille is not a man to be denied anything he desires. Now he has something worth attacking us for.”

“Oh, marvelous!” Paris snapped, as he glared up at me. “Well done, little brother! Your wanton dream has brought the destruction of Troy upon us!”

“I’d be silent, if I were you, Alexandros,” Hector warned. He only called Paris ‘Alexandros’ when he was furious with him. Which was most of the time. “Especially considering the consequences of your own wanton behavior.”

G is for Grace

Hello, I’m Grace! I’m the very first character our author came up with in her very first story. Only she stopped writing about Ted and myself when she grew up. Two years ago, she picked us up again, reinvented us, and started working on a new version of our story, ‘Wind Me Up, One More Time’. I’m really hope she’ll keep going, so encourage her to do so! Especially if you like the snippet I’m sharing. 

“Honestly, Grace, one would think you still talk to your teddy bear!”

This made me flush. Fortunately, my complexion was too dark to show it. I’d been leaving Ted on my shelf a lot. This wasn’t because I didn’t want to pick her up or hold her. Grown ups didn’t need to pick up their bears. Adults solved their own problems. They didn’t turn to stuffed animals for comfort or advice. 

This didn’t mean I didn’t miss her. 

F is for Faith

Avert your eyes for I am Faith! First point of the Triumvirate of the Horn of the Unicorn! Together with my Sisters in the Goddess, we stamp out the corruption of the Serpent wherever we find it. We three are one heart, one mind, one purpose.

Only in 'Trouble at Caerac Keep', our vile author saw fit to separate us. Read about our despair as we three find ourselves reduced to two. I shall take my vengeance upon her if this Work in Progress doesn't see the three of us united at the end of the story!

Also, this foul Cauldron uses cookies, which I would not eat if I were you. No doubt they're baked in heresy and wickedness. Be warned all of you, especially those of you in the U.K...

“Our sister is gone.” Hope shuddered and hugged herself. Faith felt her own flesh quiver in sympathy, but she held herself still. She had to be strong. 

“Courage,” Faith said to her sister in goddess as much as to herself. The ache in her chest throbbed with the emptiness of where Charity had been.

E is for Emma

It’s time for ‘E is for Emma’. Yes, that’s you. The only character I’ve ever written in second person. You were inspired by ‘Homestuck’, when I was intrigued by how the four kids; John, Rose, Dave, and Jade were all developed as intriguing, well rounded characters in the second person perspective. It made me want to try it myself, so I created you. You’re very dear to my heart, since you have many traits close to my own. Ever since I read the first edition of ‘Wraith the Oblivion’, you’ve been developing in my mind. Here is a snippet from a collection of short stories and fragments I’ve written about you called ‘Your Name is Emma’. 

It’s time for ‘E is for Emma’. Yes, that’s you. The only character I’ve ever written in second person. You were inspired by ‘Homestuck’, when I was intrigued by how the four kids; John, Rose, Dave, and Jade were all developed as intriguing, well rounded characters in the second person perspective. It made me want to try it myself, so I created you. You’re very dear to my heart, since you have many traits close to my own. Ever since I read the first edition of ‘Wraith the Oblivion’, you’ve been developing in my mind. I always wanted to write about a ghost haunting a coffee house, but you didn’t start out a ghost. Here is a snippet from a collection of short stories and fragments I’ve written about you called ‘Your Name is Emma’. 

You pull your black cap down a little more, although it doesn’t cover your ears. Your long, auburn hair does, although you wish it was thick, rather than a wayward mass of strands. You have a pale, heart-shaped face and round, dark eyes. You’re wearing a shapeless brown sweater that hides any hints of feminity and black jeans. Your hands are fiddling with a mechanical pencil and a notebook on the table in front of you rather than a laptop. 

D is for Danyell and Dayell

Danyell: Hello! Here we are for ‘D is for Danyell and Dayell’…Dayell, why are you trying to hide?

Dayell: Malicious thoughts flutter through the air. Attention draws closer, eager to savor our misfortunes. (glares from under lowered golden eyelashes)

Danyell: Perhaps, but malice isn’t the only thing out there. Hopefully someone friendlier will come by to visit. Readers, here’s a little of our first adventure, ‘The Hand and the Eye of the Tower’. 

A shadow leaned over him, blocking out the sun. Danyell gasped, as a face exactly like his own loomed overhead. 

“There’s no need to be afraid,” Dayell said. His twin was looking down at him. “At least, not of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Danyell said, but his words tasted like lies. Dayell’s irises were filled silver light. 

C is for Caerac

Yes, go ahead. Stir the Cauldron. Disturb a dead man’s rest. After all, all the young people visiting the Keep I founded are doing it. A particularly nasty individual is doing it, although I can’t talk about that. Evidently, it would be a spoiler. Also this site uses cookies. Not that I care. I can’t eat them any way. I’m dead, although I still have my teeth. I think. I’m not sure. Anyway, go right ahead. Read my snippet from ‘Trouble at Caerac Keep’. I don’t even get to be in the story, even though it’s ‘my’ Keep. I’m the one who had the bloody monstrosity built, not that anyone cares. Some youngster named Rhodry Nevalyn gets to do the talking. Did I mention I knew a vampire once? Corwyth Nevalyn. Not to mention Nevalyn is the name of the most evil aspect of the Great Serpent Ouroboros. Not that you care. You’re not even listening. Just want to go stampeding ahead to get to the story. Got no respect, you younglings. Yes, younglings. You haven’t reached a century yet, so I’m not impressed. Just read the bloody snippet already. 

“Are we addressing Lord Caerac of Caerac Keep?” I tried to make my voice as polite as possible. “Former hero and founder of Rowenda?”

“I am Caerac, yes, although a hero I am,” Caerac said, somewhat querrelously. “You are not Corwyth, although you look like enough to him to make a corpse shudder.” The weathered skin spread across the skull, making it resemble the head of an old man. A very old man, but a living creature, none the less. “And if you’re not Corwyth, you’ve got no business in disturbing a man’s eternal rest. Go away!”

B is for Briar

Greetings, visitors. I am Briar from our author’s first published tale, ‘Fairest’. She had to take her story back, out of reach of those who wish to read it, alas. Never fear, she seeks to publish it again. Right now, she’s questing for a new home for our f/f fantasy fairy tale. Forgive me, for I cannot reveal too much story for fear it may endanger our chances of finding that home. I will share my song with you, though, which I once shared with my princess. 

“Who is the fairest of them all?

You, me, or her?

In castle, cottage, or circle small

What will you endure?

Are you just fair of face and eye?

Or is your fairness true?

When under the sleeping curse you lie

What will you change into?

A is for Amberwyne

Hello! I’m Amberwyne, bold adventuress, character, and alter ego of my roleplayer, Rhane Soames. I appear in our author’s Work in Progress, ‘The Players Are the Thing’. Here’s a sample of my adventures. 

Amberwyne brought up her blade to meet her enemy’s. Rhiannon could have put all of her strength into meeting it, but she hesitated. She regarded the fair features of her foe with eyes as hard and cold as a pair of polished rubies. 

“Why are you hesitating?” Rhane demanded, interrupting her character’s moment of intimate concentration. How irritating. Players had no tact sometimes. “Rhiannon should be fighting her!”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes slightly at her opponent. Amber nodded slightly in sympathy. She was a player character, but Rhiannon belonged the Game Master. A mercurial and tempermental master at that. 

“Rhiannon could take your Amberwyne any time she wished,” Beatrix drawled. She leaned back against the table with a sly confidence she didn’t really feel. Rhiannon understood this, but Beatrix was a Game Master. The Master’s fragile self esteem required her to put all of her players in place, make certain those players realized she was superior. 

Especially Rhane. Particularly Rhane. 

This attitude made Rhiannon grit her teeth a bit. She might be working for the villain, but Beatrix had created her with a certain sense of honor, of chivalry. Grinding down your underlings seemed a bit petty for a god. 

Players characters came to learn, though, that all their players were petty.