Choices And Consequences

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's fourth prompt.  It follows on from Forewarning.

Birgenes hadn’t told anyone where he was going, what he was doing or why.  He had a real fear that if he did, he’d be stopped and detained.  As a religious candidate, former religious candidate in his own mind, there was a real chance he’d wind up in a corrective retreat being prayed and chanted to, over and about.  The example of Brother Laerches at the seminary was all too clear in his mind – once you were subject to that you were never the same again.  There was no appeal to the civil authorities either, the business with the dam had proved that.

It had also been Birgenes’ decision point.  He’d had doubts before, raised by the religious texts he’d been studying, but the sheer callousness and feeling of entitlement that the dam scheme demonstrated had made him reject membership of both the priesthood and the people of his birth.  If the Benarian hierarchy thought the murder of thousands in a pseudo-miracle of the most macabre sort was appropriate, then Birgenes would uproot his life so as not to be a member.

He tramped westward through the spring night towards the nearest border, consulting the navigation stars when he needed direction.

*************

Archaeology in The Wash, as the glacial rubble that covered the ancient ruins of Senlor was called, could be very profitable if you went the right way about it.  Birgenes had carefully opened up an entrance into the mound with a crowbar, spade and a saw, for the tree roots, while Saprista stood guard.  Now Saprista thrust the lantern into the hole before her and, when the flame didn’t change colour, followed it with her drawn sword, her head and then her whole body.

“Nothing’s moved in,” the voice of the Gelharine swordswoman who was now his full partner floated back out of the opening to him.  “Looks like a temple – this’ll be another donation.”

“Ah well,” Birgenes joined her inside the relatively intact building, holding a second lantern.  “The good will of the clergy means no-one interferes with us.  Being respectful costs us nothing,” the beam of his lantern caught the intact altar and he bowed to it while Saprista saluted, “and the temple tells us where to look for the other interesting buildings: libraries, prominent houses, town treasury.”

“Blacksmith, goldsmith and potter,” Saprista finished off for him with a laugh.  “Whose temple is this anyway?”

Birgenes let his lantern beam wander further beyond the all-around glow given off by Saprista’s.  “Thaladeneth’s, by the look of things.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Saprista admitted.  “That theological education of yours is very useful.”

“Of course you’ve heard of him,” Birgenes corrected her.  “He’s The Thirteenth Swordlord.”

She turned towards him, slowly and in place, “This is The Black Scabbard’s temple?”  Her face was pale.  “Have we set off any of the traps yet?”

*************

The two middle-aged men looked at each other.  No-one built houses like this one anymore, but it went with the story they’d heard.  The building, none of it more than two stories tall, rode the crest and spine of the hill and was all white walls and red tiled roofs, purposely windowless because the rooms looked inwards to courtyards.  Orchard groves, pastures and fields of vegetables and grain surrounded it.  It was the home of a rich family, a rich Gelharine family, and the two Benarians did not expect it would be easy to rescue their long lost brother from his servitude here.  It was probably best that their sons had not accompanied them today.

The long lost brother in question was looking up at them in surprise from his seat at the table in one of the courtyards, books spread in front of him.  “Orges.  Leodes.  I wasn’t expecting you.”  Birgenes carefully closed the book in front.  He turned to the Gelharine girl beside him, “Apina, please go and tell your mother that two of my brothers will be joining us for lunch.”

“Of course.”  She made a courtesy obeisance to Orges and Leodes, then left.  She was, Leodes noted, quite pretty with almost Benarian features even if her skin was the Gelharine olive rather than the darker, god-blessed Benarian hue.

“Now we can talk,” Orges said with relief.  “Birgenes, the priests who attended the convocation at Iboshoer brought us news of your enslavement.  We’ve come to rescue you and bring you home.”

Leodes added, “Forgenes, your old friend from the seminary, told us how your owner kept you away from the Benarian delegation.  You must have wanted their help.”

Birgenes sighed.  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so careful to avoid talking to them.  I didn’t realize he was there but Forgenes still doesn’t get out much, does he?”  Orges and Leodes looked at each other askance.  Birgenes took pity on them.  “Come and tidy yourselves for lunch,” he coaxed.  “Lunch will give us time to talk.”

Choices And Consequences

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's fourth prompt.  It follows on from Forewarning.

Birgenes hadn’t told anyone where he was going, what he was doing or why.  He had a real fear that if he did, he’d be stopped and detained.  As a religious candidate, former religious candidate in his own mind, there was a real chance he’d wind up in a corrective retreat being prayed and chanted to, over and about.  The example of Brother Laerches at the seminary was all too clear in his mind – once you were subject to that you were never the same again.  There was no appeal to the civil authorities either, the business with the dam had proved that.

It had also been Birgenes’ decision point.  He’d had doubts before, raised by the religious texts he’d been studying, but the sheer callousness and feeling of entitlement that the dam scheme demonstrated had made him reject membership of both the priesthood and the people of his birth.  If the Benarian hierarchy thought the murder of thousands in a pseudo-miracle of the most macabre sort was appropriate, then Birgenes would uproot his life so as not to be a member.

He tramped westward through the spring night towards the nearest border, consulting the navigation stars when he needed direction.

*************

Archaeology in The Wash, as the glacial rubble that covered the ancient ruins of Senlor was called, could be very profitable if you went the right way about it.  Birgenes had carefully opened up an entrance into the mound with a crowbar, spade and a saw, for the tree roots, while Saprista stood guard.  Now Saprista thrust the lantern into the hole before her and, when the flame didn’t change colour, followed it with her drawn sword, her head and then her whole body.

“Nothing’s moved in,” the voice of the Gelharine swordswoman who was now his full partner floated back out of the opening to him.  “Looks like a temple – this’ll be another donation.”

“Ah well,” Birgenes joined her inside the relatively intact building, holding a second lantern.  “The good will of the clergy means no-one interferes with us.  Being respectful costs us nothing,” the beam of his lantern caught the intact altar and he bowed to it while Saprista saluted, “and the temple tells us where to look for the other interesting buildings: libraries, prominent houses, town treasury.”

“Blacksmith, goldsmith and potter,” Saprista finished off for him with a laugh.  “Whose temple is this anyway?”

Birgenes let his lantern beam wander further beyond the all-around glow given off by Saprista’s.  “Thaladeneth’s, by the look of things.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Saprista admitted.  “That theological education of yours is very useful.”

“Of course you’ve heard of him,” Birgenes corrected her.  “He’s The Thirteenth Swordlord.”

She turned towards him, slowly and in place, “This is The Black Scabbard’s temple?”  Her face was pale.  “Have we set off any of the traps yet?”

*************

The two middle-aged men looked at each other.  No-one built houses like this one anymore, but it went with the story they’d heard.  The building, none of it more than two stories tall, rode the crest and spine of the hill and was all white walls and red tiled roofs, purposely windowless because the rooms looked inwards to courtyards.  Orchard groves, pastures and fields of vegetables and grain surrounded it.  It was the home of a rich family, a rich Gelharine family, and the two Benarians did not expect it would be easy to rescue their long lost brother from his servitude here.  It was probably best that their sons had not accompanied them today.

The long lost brother in question was looking up at them in surprise from his seat at the table in one of the courtyards, books spread in front of him.  “Orges.  Leodes.  I wasn’t expecting you.”  Birgenes carefully closed the book in front of him.  He turned to the Gelharine girl beside him, “Apina, please go and tell your mother that two of my brothers will be joining us for lunch.”

“Of course.”  She made a courtesy obeisance to Orges and Leodes, then left.  She was, Leodes noted, quite pretty with almost Benarian features even if her skin was the Gelharine olive rather than the darker, god-blessed Benarian hue.

“Now we can talk,” Orges said with relief.  “Birgenes, the priests who attended the convocation at Iboshoer brought us news of your enslavement.  We’ve come to rescue you and bring you home.”

Leodes added, “Forgenes, your old friend from the seminary, told us how your owner kept you away from the Benarian delegation.  You must have wanted their help.”

Birgenes sighed.  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so careful to avoid talking to them.  I didn’t realize he was there but Forgenes still doesn’t get out much, does he?”  Orges and Leodes looked at each other askance.  Birgenes took pity on them.  “Come and tidy yourselves for lunch,” he coaxed.  “Lunch will give us time to talk.”

May Giraffe Call

aldersprig is having her May Giraffe Call!

Prompt for fiction, then read good stories.

This time the theme is "Origins and Creation."

May Giraffe Call

aldersprig is having her May Giraffe Call!

Prompt for fiction, then read good stories.

This time the theme is "Origins and Creation."

The Only Girl For You

I wrote this to aldersprig's third prompt.

The family of Fingate Farm were having a meeting, all of them seated around their communal table.  The oldest generation were Ester and Olrin, the only surviving members of their marriage.  Technically Ester was the farm’s sole owner these days but as they weren’t considering the sale of land, that wasn’t an issue.  The three sons of their marriage were there, along with their sister-wives: Halanda sitting thigh by thigh with Brond; Junery and Chloe with Steen between them on the bench seat; and Phil sitting at the far corner from all of them looking, when he looked at the others, as if he’d arranged everything.  Then there were the boys, all seven of them, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-seven.  That was the problem.

“Really,” pointed out Ester, “there should be two marriages between you, but the farm simply doesn’t do well enough to support that.”

“I’m happy to be left out, if that helps,” volunteered Rafe the soldier.  “I support myself, after all.”

“And send money home,” noted Phil approvingly, “but I imagine you’ll probably want to retire here.  It would best if you have an acknowledged interest when that time comes.”

“True.”  Rafe conceded the point gracefully.

“To further limit your options,” pressed on Ester, “our neighbours not only have a shrewd idea of our position, but most of them don’t have unmarried daughters.  Those that do aren’t prepared to agree to an unbalanced agreement.”

“But?”  Unsloe, the second eldest spoke up while Bast, the toffee-haired youngest brother, looked confused beside him.  “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

“Midridge Farm over to Joltholp, the ones that own that detached strip on the other side of our creek, have one daughter.  Her brothers are getting married and their brides want her out and settled before their wedding.”  Brond grinned.  “Seems they’re worried they’ll have a spinster sister-in-law in the house for all eternity if they don’t insist now.  They’ll gift her with that detached strip as part of her dower.”

“Seven of us and one of her?”  Rafe sounded concerned.  “We could hurt her if we’re not careful.”

“How?”  That was Bast, finding something else to be confused about.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Rafe promised him.

“When do we meet her?”  Tim was the eldest.  “I can’t remember her being at anything we’ve been to – I don’t even know her name.”

“Borophy,” supplied Steen.  “Midridge does their socialising around Joltholp so it’s not surprising we haven’t seen her.  We’ve arranged for her to visit in the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, to meet you and see the place.”

“Boys,” added Olrin grimly, “she’s the only girl for you.”

Mead, the second youngest brother summed it up.  “I think we have some tidying to do.”

The Only Girl For You

I wrote this to aldersprig's third prompt.

The family of Fingate Farm were having a meeting, all of them seated around their communal table.  The oldest generation were Ester and Olrin, the only surviving members of their marriage.  Technically Ester was the farm’s sole owner these days but as they weren’t considering the sale of land, that wasn’t an issue.  The three sons of their marriage were there, along with their sister-wives: Halanda sitting thigh by thigh with Brond; Junery and Chloe with Steen between them on the bench seat; and Phil sitting at the far corner from all of them looking, when he looked at the others, as if he’d arranged everything.  Then there were the boys, all seven of them, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-seven.  That was the problem.

“Really,” pointed out Ester, “there should be two marriages between you, but the farm simply doesn’t do well enough to support that.”

“I’m happy to be left out, if that helps,” volunteered Rafe the soldier.  “I support myself, after all.”

“And send money home,” noted Phil approvingly, “but I imagine you’ll probably want to retire here.  It would best if you have an acknowledged interest when that time comes.”

“True.”  Rafe conceded the point gracefully.

“To further limit your options,” pressed on Ester, “our neighbours not only have a shrewd idea of our position, but most of them don’t have unmarried daughters.  Those that do aren’t prepared to agree to an unbalanced agreement.”

“But?”  Unsloe, the second eldest spoke up while Bast, the toffee-haired youngest brother, looked confused beside him.  “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

“Midridge Farm over to Joltholp, the ones that own that detached strip on the other side of our creek, have one daughter.  Her brothers are getting married and their brides want her out and settled before their wedding.”  Brond grinned.  “Seems they’re worried they’ll have a spinster sister-in-law in the house for all eternity if they don’t insist now.  They’ll gift her with that detached strip as part of her dower.”

“Seven of us and one of her?”  Rafe sounded concerned.  “We could hurt her if we’re not careful.”

“How?”  That was Bast, finding something else to be confused about.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Rafe promised him.

“When do we meet her?”  Tim was the eldest.  “I can’t remember her being at anything we’ve been to – I don’t even know her name.”

“Borophy,” supplied Steen.  “Midridge does their socialising around Joltholp so it’s not surprising we haven’t seen her.  We’ve arranged for her to visit in the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, to meet you and see the place.”

“Boys,” added Olrin grimly, “she’s the only girl for you.”

Mead, the second youngest brother summed it up.  “I think we have some tidying to do.”

Background Piece For April Prompt Request

I have realised that I now need to call for nominations for the subject of a back ground piece.

What would you like to hear or see more about?

[Also (ahem) we are two thirds of the way to a paid extension fueled prompt, if that makes a difference to anyone.]

Background Piece For April Prompt Request

I have realised that I now need to call for nominations for the subject of a back ground piece.

What would you like to hear or see more about?

[Also (ahem) we are two thirds of the way to a paid extension fueled prompt, if that makes a difference to anyone.]