rix_scaedu | Entries tagged with prompt request 161102

This follows on from Putting Together A Project Team 1 and comes from kunama_wolf's prompt "More Erima please." It came in at 632 words.

Erima was sitting in a Bedraze tavern with Alvithis Mordvill. He was drinking hard beer while she had a mug of cider in front of her. The Fallen Foe was the sort of place that served greasy stew with bad bread if you wanted to eat and where drinking the alcohol was safer than drinking the water. Erima had looked hard at the first black fly that had ventured onto the tacky-feeling table top after they’d sat down and that had been the only fly they’d seen, while around them other patrons were constantly brushing the things away.

“Not what you’re used to, eh kid?” Mordvill the architect was trying to be unpleasant.

“Of course not,” Erima agreed. “They let me drink cider,” and she suited her actions to her words, “although I believe I could get these tabletops cleaner than they are right now. Of course, it all depends on how many hands they have and what else there is to do – there are only so many hours in the day after all.”

Abruptly Mordvill asked, “Why did you agree to come here, really?”

“You recommended a man to transport the supplies we need,” replied Erima. “My father had the same name in his list. I don’t see that I had much choice.”

“So while we’re waiting, what is it like having this voice in your head, telling you what to do?” Mordvill took a long mouthful from his mug.

Erima smiled. “It’s not like that, really. Hang on, isn’t that the one we’re here to meet coming in the door? In the striped vest and with silver buttons on his coat.”

“Aye,” agreed Mordvill, and he made a small gesture that the man in the doorway acknowledged. They watched as the new arrival bought a drink at the bar and made his way to their table. “Erima, this is Temus Porter. Temus, this is Erima whose father has commissioned me to design him a temple.”

“Congratulations,” offered Porter. “So what’s that got to do with me?”

“We need someone to transport construction materials and spoil for us,” Erima’s hands indicated paths crossing in opposite directions. “My father says he’s heard good things about you and Master Mordvill recommends you. It’s legal work for appropriate pay and probably good for your reputation-.”

“Sweetheart, it doesn’t sound like it pays enough for my tastes and I don’t need no help with my reputation.” Porter started downing his drink in preparation for leaving.

Erima replied quietly, “My Father said to tell you that Blackwater still thinks he counted wrong.”

Porter almost choked in mid swig, recovered, put his mug down on the table and took a long, hard look at Erima. “Skin and whiskers! Why don’t you glow in the light like those other Gods’ born?”

Erima smiled back at him over her mug before sipping and replying, “I get to meet much more interesting people this way?”

“Your old man,” Porter pointed a finger at her, “has me by the short and curlies, and he knows it. What am I moving for you?” He sighed.

“Stone. Lots of stone,” replied Mordvill. “We’re not sure what kind of stone yet, so we’re not sure of the destination or the distance either.”

“And I’m getting paid?” Porter sounded sceptical.

“I’m not sure how he got it,” admitted Erima, “but my Father does have coin, legal tender, that he has made available for me to pay people with.”

“Where do you think he got it from?” That came from Mordvill.

Erima drank a mouthful of cider and said, “If I had to hazard a guess, and it’s only a guess mind you, I’d have to say from playing cards with his brothers, my uncles.”

“Tears and glory,” said Porter, “I’m glad I’m not a theologian.”

This now has a partial sequel at Hiring Commences.

I wrote this to ellenmillion's prompt "A late start to winter." It was supposed to be 200 to 250 words after I'd written 150 words on Project 3c. Project 3c is now just a little short of 6,000 words, having been at around the thousand mark, and this piece is 2,177 words. These are new characters and a new world for those who are interested in such things.

Winter was late. The polar storms were late breaching the mountains of the High Ramparts and that meant that here in the south the winter rains had not yet started.

( Read more... )

This follows on from Rules of Engagement and was written to kelkyag's prompt "Mayin, please?" Apparently it runs to 441 words.

Sharvon had sent back the requested acknowledgement to the message that had come over a data feed label line in his drone camera array.. Almost immediately his eyebrows went up as a response came back. “Uh, he says ‘They want a victim for execution I will make them choose me Backup requested Over’ He’s going to offer himself up to be shot or something? Is this guy nuts?”

“I’m sure he won’t be that blatant about either what he’s doing or his mental state. Tell him ‘Request granted’.” ordered Wraith. He turned to Mayin, “Thale, how do you know the oberxiao?”

Mayin looked at Wraith and Reaver in turn before answering, “He sought me out because he believes I became his luck witch after I blew him up while out on field operations. Originally he wanted back the thing of his he believes I hold to create that bond – now he seems it think it would be easier to marry me.”

Wraith blinked. “What does he think you’ve got?”

Reaver gave a short laugh and grinned. “I’ll explain it to you later,” he promised. “Over a beer or something, somewhere Thale can’t hear us.”

Mayin, who was still peering over the blast wall section said, “Looks like they’re about to do something, so if you jokers would like to stop rabbiting on about my personal issues…. We free the hostages, then what’s our exit?”

“Lift six,” replied Reaver. “If the podium’s twelve, it’s at two on the park rim. It’s how the official party got here and it was locked in place after they arrived, so it’ll still be there. I have an emergency key but either of you could probably unlock it in under five.”

Wraith said, “So, you secure our exit access. Thale gets the sound guys, and I shoot anyone who wants to play executioner.”

“And that’s when it will all get messy,” commented Mayin drily, “because they won’t like that.”

“Their issue, not mine,” replied Wraith.

The business-suited woman who’d arrived with him, and was his and Sharvon’s boss, carefully pulled off her shoes and shoved them in her hand bag without sitting up. Catching the look Reaver gave her she responded, “What? I know I can’t run properly in these but they cost me a week’s salary a month ago. I’d rather not lose them and it sounds to me like I’ll need to run again very shortly.”

Out on the other side of the wall two of the interlopers were moving towards the sound console, and the blonde oberxiao with the prosthetic eye and hand was interjecting into the speech the intruders‘ leader was making.

This is now followed by Talk Turns to Action.

I wrote this 1,097 word story in response to ng_moonmoth's prompt "As for the prompt, there is the gardener's eternal engagement (I *won't say "struggle" -- it's part of nature, after all!) with local critters that sample the vegetation." It's actually in the same part of its world as Project 3c, but there's no character overlap....

Silver rillue vine trailed down the stone walls that had been darkened by air exposure and algae, the supporting roots making a fretwork across the stone above adult head level where they would be undisturbed and could absorb moisture from the air and the surface to which they clung. A row of lemon trees, neatly spaced but of differing ages, some being truly venerable, marched beside the southern wall while leaving enough room for the espaliered berry bushes with their ripening fruit: grand whortle; grouse currant; blackenberry; marsh remp; golden creckle berry; blue henbane; lesser mistberry; and purple dwort. On the opposite side of the garden, tea trees and ti trees thrived in the shade of the northern wall, trimmed back so they did not exceed its twelve foot height.

Dried snail or slug trails on the stone walls glistened silver or iridesced like tiny rainbows. Common white, citrus, and blue triangle butterflies, some glowing when they ventured into the shade, danced over beds of common, rare, and semi-mythical herbs. Bees buzzed as they went about their business. In the midst of this, facing each other on two wooden garden seats, were the garden’s owner and her guests.

Withemistress Jidah Wheale sat confidently in the middle of one seat, her hands folded in her lap over her skirts and apron. She was not a small or bony woman and with her golden fawn skin, light brown hair, and dun dress she looked all of a piece. Opposite her sat two other women and three children who were all around the age of ten. Both of the other women were dressed in darker colours than the Withemistress; Heirou Galoum’s dark green attire set off her fading red coiled bun of hair and Beppilar Ramoud’s sepia skin let her choice of reddish purple glow in contrast.

The Withemistress listened to Beppilar’s pleasant alto voice explain her visitors’ problem, and then she replied with a smile, “Yes, I can see why you’re concerned but I can’t see why the children’s current state is my fault.”

The children, separated from each other by the two women squirmed uncomfortably, The Withemistress noted that not only did the children glow, but when mildly stressed they emitted a faint mist of light.

The middle child, who was one of Beppilar’s nieces and shared her dark hair, said in a guilty voice, “We wanted to make lemonade, but no-one else had any lemons left and Papa always tells us that taking fruit from a neighbours’ tree is alright if you only take one or two of many….”

“Your father’s stories of our childhood are somewhat exaggerated,” said Beppilar firmly. “I will remind him of a few things he seems to have conveniently forgotten when he and your mother get home from their voyage.”

“So you wanted to make lemonade,” acknowledged Withemistress Wheale. “Why today? It’s been hot all this week.”

The child with short red curls sitting next to Heirou piped up, “One of my name sponsors, the Trader Alzool over on Lime Alley, promised us a jug of ice to go with our afternoon snack.”

“A serious consideration,” agreed the Withemistress. “So you waited until I went out, found a way over my garden wall, took some of my lemons and got out again?”

The children all nodded vigorously. The one that hadn’t spoken yet added, “With the oak tree outside and the wisteria, it wasn’t that hard, and we had a rope.”

“Indeed,” said the Withemistress. “And then you made lemonade and drank it all yourselves, just the three of you?”

Children nodded again. “It was really good lemonade,” offered the middle one.

Heirou asked, “So, what will happen to them Withemistress? When will they stop glowing? Will it do anything else to them?”

Jidah said carefully, “My garden has twelve foot high walls around it for a reason. Many of my plants are poisonous, others are extremely rare, and others are magical either by their very nature or because they are unusual, like these lemon trees or that rosebush.” She pointed to the western end of the garden to where a blush-flowered rosebush grew within a cage. “The oldest of those lemon trees was collected by my great grandmother after the battle of Gerhengdas when she dug up and brought home a broken magical stave that had taken root. Apparently she was quite surprised when it turned out to be a lemon tree.”

The Withemistress paused as if to allow for questions but although the other two women looked at each other in a speaking manner no-one else said anything.

She went on, “As the magic in the trees comes from a weapon of unknown ability, we’ve never used the lemons for anything people take internally.” Jidah made a small gesture with her hands as she explained, “I normally use the juice in certain magical inks or for some etching purposes. The zest is useful too for a number of things like ointments and candles, but I’ve never fed anything from the tree to a human.”

Beppilar put a protective hand on each of the children beside her and asked sharply, “What have you fed it to then, Withemistress?”

The calm, prosaic answer was, “They're lemon trees, and things eat them all the time. I don’t think it likely that the continuous diet of lemon leaves eaten by a caterpillar or a stink bug’s siphoning of sap are going to be quite the same as one or two glasses of lemonade drunk by a child on one occasion.” The Withemistress frowned and added honestly, “The truth is that although I expect the glow should fade with time, I don’t know if it will and I don’t know how long it will take if it does. Whatever happens, we are all going to learn something.”

The child with red hair, her inherent glow rendering her skin tones undiscernible, asked carefully, “So you’re not going to punish us?”

“Well, not the way Withemistresses and masters in old stories punish people who steal from them,” said Jidah Wheale cheerfully. “I’m going to give you each a notebook and a pencil. Each of you is going to write down for me exactly how you remember the three of you making your lemonade. Then you’re going to write down what happened after that – drinking the lemonade, the onset of your glow, and anything else that happened. I will probably ask questions,” she added happily.

“That’s schoolwork,” said the middle child accusingly.

“Yes,” agreed the Withemistress, “but just think what else I could have done to you.”

I wrote this to aldersprig's prompt "Something off of that facilitator story?" and so it follows on from Hook, Line And Sinker. It came out at 747 words, but I was already writing it.

The advertisement was quite modest. It read:

To Whom It May Concern,

It has come to the attention of the undersigned that a person or persons purporting to represent her have been offering the undersigned’s services as a Relationship Facilitator to the public in exchange for financial consideration.

The undersigned has never given any person permission to represent her in such a fashion and at no time has she provided services of the type described to any person or groups of persons. Anyone who has provided financial consideration to any party in respect of services of the type described to purportedly be provided by the undersigned should recoup said consideration from the party to whom it was paid.

Enni Barlinga-Karble-Mentford

Bella had gone around to her sister’s place in high dudgeon. She had put herself to a great deal of effort to help Enni get established in her career and now the silly creature was doing her best to undo all Bella’s work. She rapped firmly on the door of a third floor apartment in rather plain building. “Enni, it’s Bella. I know you’re in there. Now open up and let me in!”

The door opened a crack, the security chain clearly still in place, letting Bella see a stripe of her marginally younger sister through the opening. "My solicitors sent you a letter asking you not to approach me,” said Enni firmly. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped back Bella. “We don’t need lawyers to sort this out. Just let me in so we can talk sensibly and in a civilized fashion.”

“But I don’t want to talk to you,” replied Enni, “so I’m not going to let you in. Anything you want to say to me, you can say to my solicitors. Good bye.”

She started closing the door but Bella shoved her soft leather tote bag into the gap. “You’re making yourself even more ridiculous, Enni.” She saw something through the gap over her bag and said, shocked and horrified, “You can’t be pregnant! If you’re going to have it, then it has to go back to the father and his marriage. I’ll take care of all the arrangements, but you need to let me in!”

“This conversation is over,” said Enni stonily. “Anything else you want to say, you can say to my solicitor. If you don’t take your bag out of my door and leave the building, I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bella was getting exasperated.

Before she could say anything else a male voice from behind her said, “Lady, I live downstairs and you woke me up so I came up here to ask you to keep it down,” Bella looked over her shoulder and found that the speaker was quite a good looking man with tanned olive skin, black hair and a neat, matching beard. “Now though, I’ve just heard my neighbour tell you to leave after you made what could be considered a threat. If you don’t go quietly right away, I’m going to call the police.” He already held a mobile phone in his hand.

Truly exasperated now, Bella said, “That wasn’t a threat, that was an offer to help. My sister just needs to be sensible and let me take care of things if she can’t or won’t take care of them herself!”

“Go away. I do not need your help and I don’t want to talk to you.” Enni was articulating carefully and precisely.

The man started pushing buttons on his phone.

“Fine!” Bella through her hands up in the air and then pulled her bag out of the door. “Don’t blame me when this all ends in tears!”

She stormed past the black haired man and down the stairs. He peered over the edge of the bannisters and watched until Bella passed out of sight as she moved across the lobby to the doors.

As he straightened Enni asked, “Has she really gone?”

“Looks like it,” he replied. “I’m Tarpin, by the way.”

Enni took the chain off her door and opened it. “You’re the mail guy who lives downstairs, aren’t you? I’m Enni.” She offered him her hand to shake. “Thank you for your help there.”

Tarpin shook her hand with just the right firmness and duration. “Not a problem. Look, I really do need to get some sleep now but would you like to go for coffee sometime?”

Enni smiled quietly. “I think I’d like that, thank you.”

Dear Gentle Beings of all persuasions,

I am after some more motivating prompts from you to get me moving on the things I want to and think I should get done in my writing sphere of activities.

Spring is springing over here and we have one month left before summer. Jacarandas, hippeastrums, blackberries and passion fruit are all flowering. Birds are nesting - not in my roof this year as far as I can tell - and at least one bandicoot is madly digging up everything....

I am also trying to help the Offspring with his job search.

My work place is being partly reorganised and we are expressing doubts...politics are afoot. I don't know if it will end particularly well, but enough of that.

If you would like to help me work on my to-do list, and give me a prompt as well, please give me a whole number from one to twelve inclusive and a short prompt tag you would like written to. I will write 150 words/spend 15 minutes on the list item, and then write you 200-250 words to your prompt.

There are some rules.

* Please don't ask for main story Nai as your prompt - more Nai writing will happen next weekend;

* One prompt per prompter; and

* No erotica (I need to be in the mood) and no fanfic (I would mangle your favourite characters to no satisfactory result.)

Thank you for your help.