#the edge of a wetland and a forest so I say both

[oneleggedflamingo]

12.06-22

I love these. 

- Vivera Rossi

#plants #nature #forest #wetland #green aesthetic #pine trees #photography #original photographers #the edge of a wetland and a forest so I say both #finland

[ragingbookdragon]

Make Peace In The Dirt

Kotallo x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: Oh yeah...it's all coming together. Enjoy! -Thorne

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

Aloy made her rounds throughout the base, talking to her friends as she usually did when she returned from running all over the Forbidden West. As she entered Kotallo’s room, she smiled politely as he looked up to greet whoever opened the doors. “Hey Kotallo,” Aloy greeted, walking over. “Been busy today?”

He flicked through a few holograms, and she recognized them as Old World, pre-automated jets. “Your Carjan friend has shared some of her data with me on the Ten. It’s appreciated.”

Aloy shifted, looking at one. “I’ve been meaning to ask how the two of you were getting along. I was a little worried that you two would be at each other’s throats.”

“Oh, we were while you were gone,” he answered and shifted so she could see his side. “She suggested we settle this like warriors outside.” Lifting his arm, Aloy pulled a face at the bandage settled across his rib going up his back. “She moves quite fast and strikes very hard for a woman whose job is supposedly to infiltrate and return unseen.”

“Holy shit,” Aloy breathed, reaching out to touch it. “Okay, I think I need to have a talk with her.”

“Alright, but if I’m getting lectured, Kotallo is too, because it’s only fair,” someone said from the doors and they both turned to see her coming inside. She turned on her heel and lifted the back of her shirt, showing Aloy the bruise that had blossomed along her shoulder blades. “If it makes you feel any better, he hit me hard enough that I saw stars and threw up everything I’d eaten today.”

Aloy threw her hands in the air. “Why did you two fight this out! Why didn’t you just, I don’t know, come get me!”

Kotallo’s expression pinched. “We are warriors? We settle our disputes in battle.”

“You’re both insane.”

The two looked at one another with knowing looks, the eyes of warriors and merely shrugged; she took a seat in one of the chairs, flipping the screen up so it was out of her field of vision. “The Nora are not so much a tribe of fighters who decide their dues by combat, Aloy. The Tenakth and my people back southeast very much so are.” Her eyes found Kotallo’s. “We spoke our differences during our battle and made peace in the dirt.”

Aloy’s face was pure vacancy. “So…you’re telling me, you beat the hell out of each other for an hour or so, and now you’re best friends?”

“I wouldn’t say best friends,” Kotallo replied. “But I would trust your Carjan spy to watch my back in battle.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, big guy,” she chirped. “But I’m not Carjan.”

“What exactly are you?” Aloy asked, intrigued that her old friend had never really spoken about her origin.

She smiled and tapped her Focus, showing a map of the Old-World land, but bigger and more complete. “The Old-World land we live on used to be apart of a larger nation, comprised of fifty or so smaller nations. They called it the United States.” She zoomed in on a state down in the southeast of their location, far southeast. “This particular state was called Florida. My people are from here.”

Kotallo walked over and bent beside her, taking a look at the layout of the land. “Is it near water?”

“It is,” she answered. “Around the edges is all ocean. I come from a moderate clan located here, all the way down at the end of the state. It was called the Everglades.” Her Focus displayed photos of wetlands. “Truth be told, Tenakth lands are remarkably similar in climate and geography to my home. Gives testament to why I’m finding this land so comfortable.”

“What’s it like?” Aloy questioned, taking the other side of the chair.

“The land is flat and densely forested in areas. It’s mostly a hot and humid, subtropical climate. We made our homes in locations where the trees were big and strong. Cyprus trees, the Old Ones called them.” Something sad came over her face and she muttered, “It’s gone now…my home and people.”

Kotallo looked at her. “What happened?”

“Invaders from one of the northern clans waged war on ours. We might’ve had an at-home advantage but…in the end it didn’t matter.” She swiped her hand, sending the images away. “I can count on two hands how many of us survived the slaughter, myself included. Some joined other clans, others took their own lives, unable to bear the harsh reality that we were all that remained of a once proud people.”

Aloy frowned. “What did you do?”

She blinked, eyes almost dead as she stared ahead. “I honed my instincts and abilities to razor-sharp edges and then I traveled to the clan that killed mine where I took my revenge.” Her voice grew monotone. “I let the women and children escape but I killed every able-bodied man I could find including their best warriors and leaders, then I burned it all to the ground and left ashes in my wake.”

Kotallo gazed at her. “It’s hard to believe that one woman could do all that damage.”

“Rage is an extremely powerful motivator. And believe me, I was full of it.” Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “It’s a part of my past I’m not proud of. I let my vengeance get the better of me and instead of taking that pain and using it for something better, I enacted the same slaughter and agony I was inflicted with.”

Something in Aloy’s heart broke for her friend, though the sickness rolled in her stomach at the thought of all the blood on her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“As am I,” she replied, leaning back in the chair. “I live with my past every day, but it is also the reason I strive to make sure it never happens to anyone ever again. Someone must stop the cycle of senseless war.” Glancing at Aloy, she smiled. “I see you and our wonderful friends and allies being the catalysts for that stop, Aloy, and I hope that I will live to see it too.”

Aloy felt uncomfortable with such praise, and she turned her head as a blush came over her face. “I’m just doing what I can.”

“It’s more than what most are willing to do,” she said in return, and glanced at Kotallo. “Be that as it may, I’ll be needing to meet Chief Hekarro in the coming days to discuss relations between your people and the Carja.” Grinning, she questioned, “Can I count you in for a travel companion and to put in a good word with him?”

Kotallo gave her a stoic stare. “Seems I must if you don’t want to get shot on the principle of walking into Tenakth territory dressed like a haughty Carjan.”

“What? I don’t dress like a Carjan,” she retorted, expression pinching. “And what’s wrong with dressing like one in the first place?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “At least the armor they wear covers vulnerable areas unlike yours.”

“Our armor is made as it is because we do not use sly techniques like backstabbing to fight,” he griped and Aloy slapped her hand to her forehead as the two started arguing back and forth with one another, intent to fight outside again.

#kotallo x reader imagine #kotallo x reader imagines #kotallo x reader #kotallo imagine #kotallo imagines #kotallo #kotallo hfw #horizon forbidden west imagine #horizon forbidden west imagines #horizon forbidden west #hfw imagine #hfw imagines #hfw #HFW #aloy #aloy of the nora #aloy hfw

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 7: In the Woods (Transcript) - 1st June 2015

tw: ghosts, suicide, racism (colonial era violence towards Native Americans)

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Nothing can be as isolating or confining as the woods. They seem to cut us off from the rest of the world, leaving us alone, balanced on the edge of being lost. Even in these fairly modern times, the woods seem to exist as a reminder that so much of the world is outside of our control. Sure, we could stay on the path, but those narrow routes between the trees only give us the illusion of control, like a trail of breadcrumbs. They’re fragile and fleeting, and somewhere in the back of our minds we understand that if we were to leave the trail, we would be stepping into the unknown. The woods hide things from us. For centuries, criminals have used the dark cloak of the forest to conceal everything from bootlegging and poaching to drug use and murder. They hide wildlife from us and instil just enough doubt and mystery that we end up believing anything could be living out there. Anything. Some areas, though, are darker than others. In some places the woods are more than just a gathering of trees and undergrowth. There are locations in our world that are consistently avoided, plagued by rumour, and dense with fear. To step into one of these places is to abandon all safety, all reason, and all hope. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Between the three Massachusetts towns of Abington, Rehoboth and Freetown exists a triangular slice of land that has become home to hundreds of reports of unexplainable phenomenon. It’s known as the Bridgewater Triangle, though some call it the black triangle, or the devil’s triangle. It might not be swallowing up fighter jets and colonial era ships like the Bermuda Triangle to the south, but its history is just as storied and mysterious. One of the areas within the triangle is the Hockomock Swamp. It’s a 17,000-acre wetland near Bridgewater, Massachusetts. In the 1600s it was inhabited by the Wampanoag tribe of Native Americans, and the fort they built inside it became a strategic location for them during King Philip’s war in 1674. One legend tells how during those times of upheaval and invasion by the colonies, a powerful artefact was lost in the swamp. Now, I can’t find anything beyond a small Wikipedia entry to confirm this, but the story tells of how an object known as the Wampum belt was lost during the war, and that as a result, the swamp became a home to restless spirits. Ever since, the swamp has been a source of a nearly endless supply of unexplainable sightings. One of the most dramatic and best documented reports was made by a local police officer, Sargent Thomas Downey. On a summer night in 1971, Downey was driving home towards the town of Easton, near a place known as Bird Hill, that sits at the edge of the swamp. As he approached the hill, he caught sight of an enormous, winged creature. Downey claims it was over 6ft tall and had a wingspan of almost 12ft. After reporting the sighting to the Easton police, he quickly earned the nickname of “The Bird Man”. I don’t know about you, but it seems odd that a police officer would risk his reputation on such an unusual claim if it was just a joke. Officer Downey clearly saw something that night – just what that thing was, though, is open to debate.

Decades earlier, in 1939, the Civilian Conservation Corps were working on the edge of the swamp, near King Philip’s Street. While there, workers claim to have seen a huge snake, as large around and as black as a stovepipe. According to the report, the snake coiled for a moment, raised its head, and then vanished into the swamp. And what wooded area would be complete without Bigfoot sightings? Although a tall, hairy creature has been sighted dozens of times over the years in various parts of the Bridgewater Triangle, the most common experiences have been near the swamp. In 1983, John Baker, a local fur trapper, had a similar experience. He was on his canoe in the swamp when he heard a splash. He turned to see, and I quote, “a hairy beast slog into the river, and pass within a few yards of his boat”. In 1978, a local man, Joe DeAndrade, was standing on the shore of a pond known as Clay Banks. He claimed that he turned and saw what he described as “a creature that was all brown and hairy, like an apish man-thing”. Oddly enough, I went to high school with a guy who fits that description. But there’s been more than just weird animal sightings in the swamp. As far back as the late 19th century, locals have reported seeing unusual lights. One report was made by two undertakers who were travelling past the swamp on Halloween night in 1908. They claim to have seen a light that hovered in the sky for almost an hour. Whether the reports of creatures and lights are true or not, it might be worth mentioning that the Wampanoag word hockomock literally means “the place where the spirits dwell”.

Another hotspot, in the south-eastern corner of the triangle, is the Freetown State Forest. If all the stories are to be believed, it’s the quintessential haunted forest. Deep inside the park is a cliff, known as the Assonet Ledge, that overlooks an old quarry. There have been reports of hauntings near the ledge, of visions and ghostly figures. Some stories tell [of how] a woman in white lingers near the precipice. Others claim to have heard voices while visiting there. The most common report is of mysterious lights. Some researchers think they know exactly where those lights come from, too. They’re the tools of a creature known as the “Pukwudgie”. In ancient Wampanoag folklore, the Pukwudgie is a small, forest-dwelling creature, something like a troll or a goblin, that lives in the wooded areas around the swamp. Aside from having one of the most entertaining names to say out loud, they are sawid to be small, hairy people, roughly 3ft tall, who hide in the woods and cause trouble to people who discover them. What kind of trouble? Well, Wampanoag folklore tells of how the Pukwudgies use lights to lure travellers into the woods, where they would kill them. These lights, according to legend, are known as the “tei pai wankas”, the North American version of the English will-o’-the-wisp, sometimes referred to as ghost lights. The pukwudgies use the lights as bait, luring people to their death. Rather than attacking hikers outright, apparently these creatures prefer to let the land itself kill their victims. Coincidentally, one of the most common experiences reported by visitors to the ledge is an overwhelming urge to jump. Normal, healthy people have felt nearly suicidal standing atop the ledge. Many of them claim, upon approaching the edge of the cliff, they felt an almost uncontrollable desire to jump off into the dark, rocky water, over 100ft below.

One story in particular bares retelling. Bill Russo was a welder from Raynham. He worked long hours, and for the six years prior to his retirement, he worked the late shift, from 3pm until midnight. By the time he got home from work each night, Bill’s dog Samantha was in desperate need of a walk, and so before bed, Bill would take her out and let her get some exercise. They kept this habit up each and every night, no matter the season or the weather. On a night in 1995, Bill took Samantha out for their usual walk. Their typical route was to stay on the sidewalks and head toward the centre of town, but on this night, they made a change. Bill decided, on a whim, to cut through his own backyard and head along a trail through the woods that ran alongside the swamp. Not a choice I would have made, mind you, even with a German shepherd and rottweiler mix as my companion. About half a mile into their walk, at a place where the path was crossed by a road, Samantha began acting odd. She was tugging at the leash and trembling, and kept glancing back at Bill with worried eyes. Bill pulled at the leash to lead her home, but the dog wouldn’t budge, she just whined and quivered where she stood. After a moment, Bill began to hear the sound that had frightened his dog. It was a thin, high-pitched voice, faint at first but growing louder as it continued, and even though Bill couldn’t understand what the voice was saying, it kept repeating the same sounds. “Ee wahn chu” it seemed to say, “ee wahn chu”. It was midnight, in the woods, so of course Bill couldn’t see anything, but he tried – he scanned the trees and bushes for whatever could be making the sounds. There was even a street light nearby, casting a small circle of pale light on the pavement, but he didn’t see anything. And then suddenly something stepped into the light.

According to Bill, it was perhaps 4ft tall, covered in hair, walked on two legs like a human, and looked to weigh no more than 100lb. It was naked and potbellied, and looked nothing like anything Bill had ever seen before in the swamp. And as it stepped out of the trees and into the light, it continued to speak to him. “Ee wahn chu” it said again. “Keer, keer”. Bill and Samantha stood frozen to the ground, paralysed with fear, and as the dog continued to whine and shiver, the creature lifted its arms and beckoned them to follow. “Ee wahn chu” it said again, motioning to them, “keer”. Bill claimed that he tried asking the creature a few questions, but it only replied with the same nonsense it had already said. Not knowing what else to do, Bill managed to tug Samantha after him, and they both turned and headed home. They didn’t look back.

It’s not the trees that make the woods a frightening place, it’s what the trees conceal. There’s no telling what creatures hide behind the green leaves and thick branches of the forest landscape. Cryptozoologists, ghost hunters and believers in the supernatural are often seen as abnormal. They believe in things that can’t possibly be real. But when we step into the woods, when we surround ourselves with the dark embrace of the unknown, somehow the impossible begins to seem more likely. Maybe we want to believe. Maybe that feeling we get in the pit of our stomachs when we step into a strange, wooded area, is a cry for answers. There has to be something more out there, right? Maybe that’s all we want to know, but we’re simply too afraid of the answers. Bill Russo experienced that same fear on that night in 1995. He and Samantha managed to find their way home, but he was beyond shaken up. Even though it was 1 o’clock in the morning, he went into the kitchen and brewed himself a pot of coffee. There was no way he was going to let himself sleep that night. Cup after cup, hour after hour, Bill relived the experience over and over again, playing back everything he heard and saw. He experienced doubt, and fear, and regret. He wondered if maybe he should have tried harder to speak with the creature. Perhaps he should have approached it, if Samantha would have allowed him to, that is. But the question that plagued him for most of that night was more difficult. What was the creature saying to him? Bill wrestled with his memory of those sounds all through the night. “Ee wahn chu”, it said, and then “Keer”. Before sunrise, Bill was almost positive that he had his answer. It wasn’t another language the creature was speaking after all. It had been trying its best to use English – and the words it kept repeating? “We want you”, it had been saying, “come here”.

Lore is a biweekly podcast and was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can find out more about this episode, including background music, at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow us on Twitter and Facebook @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, our amazing listeners. [Sponsor break here]. To find out how you can support Lore, visit lorepodcast.com/support. You’ll find links to help you leave a review on Itunes, support Lore on Patreon for some awesome rewards, and find a list of my supernatural thrillers, available in both paperback and ebook format. I couldn’t do this show without any of you, and I’m thankful to each and every one of you for that. Thanks for listening.

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #bridgewater triangle #pukwudgie #assonet ledge #massachusetts #cryptozoology #folklore #transcripts #7

[protectorsofthewood]

The Ghost Girl - Episode 23

PLAIN TALK ABOUT THE PROBLEMS WE FACE

Reverend Tuck gave thanks to the band and said he hoped to see them again often. Soon the crowd resumed their seats, waiting for the discussion to begin. People began whispering questions and comments to each other, and the murmuring spread around the circle. Finally, tall bearded Fred Peterson, standing with his wife outside the circle, spoke like a prophet come in from the wilderness: “I agree with all that has been said so far. But the devil is in the details, so I’d like to risk some plain talk about the problems we face.” The murmuring stopped. “I think many of you are wondering why these floods are growing all along the Half Moon Valley, and why Rivergate and many other places are so vulnerable. I’d also like to give my opinion on why our church school building has been abandoned and needs repair, and what we can do to fix these problems.” The tall farmer had their attention. “I have relatives in Rivergate, and have studied the weather like any farmer for forty years, and I can tell you that our weather patterns have changed. The warm wind from the south brings a lot more moisture up into the forest preserve, and these storms and thunderheads are pushed west along the barrier of the Half Moon Cliffs toward the wetlands. Sometimes these storms come right over into Middletown, but mostly the clouds veer off into the wetlands, hit the cooler air from the north, and leave their moisture there. Yes, we got a bad storm here last Saturday, but it rained four times that amount up the Snake and Half Moon rivers. I drove some of my workers back to the trailer park yesterday, and Highway 71 was closed as trucks brought in tons of gravel to protect the edge of the highway from the rising water. I hear over the radio that streets in Evansville and River City were flooded on Monday. So the rising water affects the entire valley. The people with money and organization, such as our state government and the large corporations, have for years been pretending that this problem is simply not happening, or will somehow go away. But as they just said in the song, ‘one of these days that water’s gonna flow in here'.” The crowd gave this speech a round of applause, but Fred Peterson wasn’t finished yet. “And I’ve got one more thing to say. It used to be that the fortunate and wealthy families in Half Moon and Middletown generously supported our church and its building maintenance, its programs, and its charity to the needy. But that support has diminished over the years. And now – as our campaign to fight climate change grows – the rich and their supporters are running their own campaign to boycott donations to this church. We can expect that boycott to continue as long as we insist that climate change is an urgent moral issue for us all. And I say to you, do not expect help from the wealthy for either our church or for Rivergate. That group thinks people in Rivergate County should just move away, the sooner the better, and they hope that our minister here and folks like me would disappear as well.” Fred Peterson took a deep breath. “We’ve seen this struggle coming for years, and most of us have been afraid to say publicly what we all know to be the case. But I think those days are over. We’ve got to take action now just to survive and live with our own consciences… Thanks for your attention, I’m here to help in any way I can.” The farmer towered over the circle, his face both serious and sad. “Hear! Hear!” shouted someone, amidst the clapping and cheers.

#environment #ecofiction #femaleheros #climatechange #climatechangeisreal

[christinevelazquez-blog-blog]

Journal 3 - Nature Trail Walk and Ecological Footprint

(I was not able to attend this nature trail walk, but I am going to update this journal with pictures when I do get to walk through for myself)

Pine Flatwoods is the highest and driest point on campus, all the spots after get progressively lower and more wet. Ecosystems are named after the plant species that is most prevalent there. Slash pines are southeastern conifer trees that are named after pioneers who slashed them and used their sap for differing naval industry products. The other prevalent plant here is the cabbage palm, which has pieces of bark that allowed for early settlers to dry their boots. They referred to this area as the “boot” of the tree because of this. The cabbage/sabal palm is technically not a tree in that it does not have wood in its trunk, but it’s “boot” provides protection from debris and rainwater. This in turn creates ecosystems and space for other plants/animals to live in. Naturally, pine flatwoods are higher in elevation. This means rainwater and precipitation drains from the area quickly and leaves behind sandy soil with little organic nutrients.

Oak hammocks are a tree of islands that are lower in elevation than the flatwoods, but are higher in elevation than the wetlands. Sort of like a middle ground between the two, Oak Hammocks are shadier because of the trees and the more closed canopy they provide. They experience less forest fires because oak trees have leaves with fire resistance, and the entire area is surrounded by wetlands. Because the area is slightly lower in elevation, the soil is more moist with organic matter. The canopy traps humidity in the air, so epiphytes, which are plants that live on plants, thrive in these areas. The epiphytes don’t harm the plants they live on, they just use them as areas to grow. Epiphytes are typically adapted to curl up during dry spells and rejuvenate when rain hits. Air plants, which look like the top of a pineapple, along with barred owls also live in oak hammocks.

Cypress Dome is another name for Cypress Swamp, and it is very low in elevation. The prevalent plant species here are cypress trees. The water that covers the swamp prevents forest fires and decomposing plant material. The trees in the center of the dome are taller because as you move further away, the water gets shallower. The trees on the edge of the water must compete with other plants for sunlight and nutrients, so they are shorter in height. As you move inward, the water gets deeper, so the trees progressively get taller and this creates the dome shape of the swamp. Deeper water provides protection and separation from differing plant species, this adds to the pattern. In the center of the dome, however, there will be an empty clearing, because germination of cypress seeds require dry soil and the water is deepest in the center; making conditions rare. Cypress trees are deciduous conifers, similar to pine trees but pine trees are evergreen. Deciduous trees are known to shed their leaves in the winter time. Mosquito populations increase when the water level in the swamp is low, because there are actual fish in the water that feed on mosquito larvae. This drops numbers down greatly when the water is high, because mosquito fish can swim more freely. Dragonflies are also known as mosquito hawks because they prey on mosquitos. Both of these species help lower the mosquito numbers in the swamp.

Section 2 - FGCU Campus and Sense of Place

My favorite place to be on campus is either the boardwalk by garage 3, or the outside area behind Merwin Hall. Typically, I find these areas to be less populated, so you get a good view of the trees and nature. The area behind Merwin hall has a table where you can sit, eat food or write notes, and it’s literally right in the backyard of Merwin. This would be considered a green space because it helps students take a break from the indoors and connect with nature. I love the boardwalk specifically because it brings you to the present. Whenever I walk past it I find myself looking through the trees and water to see the creatures within. Even if I am not watching the trees specifically, just being in the area calms me down. Now that I think about it, my head is always clear when I walk through there because I am taking all the beauty in. Even the smell of the trees and wooded boardwalk keep me grounded. It’s a combination of things that have just stayed with me since the first days here. I remember being a freshman and walking the boardwalk, thinking the same exact thing. I would even park at the further garage just to go through it, it’s the only way I knew best; the strongest connection built. Thinking about my sense of place on campus allowed me to realize the deeper connections I have made throughout the years. My sense of place has a theme, but there are different places that I have been. I noticed that it’s typically areas that are outdoors that seem to be my main sense of place. It’s part of the reason I am a biology major. Being outside puts me in the moment, and releases a lot of stress that my mind creates.

Section 3 & 4 - Ecological Footprint

If everyone lived like me, we would need 3.5 Earths. After looking on these results, I was shocked but understand why it is so. I do a lot of driving, and my car isn’t electric, so my carbon footprint is a huge factor. I also can do a lot of more shopping locally af farmers markets. I used to do this before covid, but kind of stopped since. My family, on the other hand, isn’t vegan, but their driving habits are better. I think if we adopted more of each other’s technique. I drive less, they eat more plant-based, it could help a lot in impacting our scores. If I introduce them to farmers markets as well (so they know what they are, where to look) it might make a difference.

Throughout my consumption in the past 24 hours, I would say my worst habit is driving and using electricity. The other night, I actually fell asleep with the TV on. Small things like that can lead up to bigger habits and issues later on. I have definitely done it in the past, slept with lights on or something. I am becoming more aware of this. I try to turn everything off throughout the day and only use light if I really need to. Switching to more energy efficient appliances would help in household sustainability, and could definitely lower our Earth amount. In terms of driving, my dream is to own a Tesla. But for now, just lowering the amount of mileage I use, weekly, would be the best option. I am already aware of my consumption with this and have been trying to stay home more often, but in the future, keeping to this goal is important. Above all, remembering what is necessary in keeping my consumption and carbon footprint low is what will be most effective in the long run . I will always try to keep these goals in mind for the future.

[travelcenter-uk]

The 10 Hidden Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka

Life is either a daring adventure… or a rejuvenating escape in one of the top boutique hotels in Sri Lanka!

Boutique hotels in Sri Lanka have their uniqueness starting from the rich influences of the Colonial architecture to the extreme touch of local designs!

So, if you are hoping to visit Sri Lanka in 2021 (or any day, I’d say), you have got to know that this tiny Island is full of such unique boutique hotels. Choosing one from the unending list, is definitely going to be a hassle.

To help you save your time and money, I have picked ten out of the many top boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, from different parts of the country, for you to choose from.

If you want more assistance for a hassle-free holiday planning to Sri Lanka, you can contact our premium travel experts at Travel Center! It’s the best way for you to get all the information about holidays in Sri Lanka, and…. to grab some of the best deals and offers! (Grab it when it’s available!!!)

Now, to the boutiques!

Let’s start with one of the best boutique hotels in Sri Lanka for the adventurous and exotic travellers;

Wild Coast Lodge (Yala)

After knowing Yala for its wildlife (especially leopards, of course), it’s going to be a tad bit difficult for you to believe in Wild Coast Lodge! It’s like a hidden gem in the exotic greenery of Sri Lanka that we were lucky enough to find for you.

The ‘Wild Coast Lodge’ is a cluster of cocoons (literally what they look like!) tents. They are located in the most scenic edge of the Yala National Park, strapped to the southern coastline.

What Makes the Wild Coast Lodge Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

It is more like camping than just resting in one of the boutique hotels in Sri Lanka!

Why I say so is because of how these cocoon-shaped tents are built!

I mean, where exactly would you find such luxury tents built amidst elephants and monkeys by daytime and leopards in the night?!

Apart from exploring the exotic surroundings of the Wild Coast Edge, you can also get some curated here, like;

Explore the wilderness with Safari game drives, with the assistance of ‘a passionate ranger team.’

Enjoy a rural bike exploration.

Check out their official website on more things-to-do as you book a stay at the Wild Coast Lodge in 2021!

Read more

Safari-ing in Sri Lanka

If you are more of a beach person than a jungle person, then check out the next boutique hotel!

Karpaha Sands (Trincomalee)

You cannot visit Sri Lanka and not have a ‘salt in my hair, a camera full of memories’ experience!

After the must-visit Arugam Bay in the list of beaches in Sri Lanka, comes Pasikudah and Kalkudah. So, on your visit to the Pasikudah, you’ll find the Karpaha Sands boutique hotel!

It’s like a total ‘Robinson Crusoe’ experience, except, you need not build your tent.

You’ll find a stretch of luxury boutique hotels lined up on the beach, creating a complete luxury holiday vibe. They’re structured in the most traditional ways, stunning enough to attract visitors.

During your stay in the Karpaha Sands, you’ll be able to;

Explore many vibrant Hindu temples and local markets in the neighbouring Tamil villages.

Get yourself adorned with traditional henna tattoos from a local henna artist.

Attend a fun two-hour cooking class from professional Sri Lankan chef

Take the catamaran cruise and adore the perfect coastline and blue shades of the Indian Ocean

Climb the Kudumbi Malai rock that gives a breath-taking bird’s eye view of the paddy fields, forests and Palmyra palms.

Read more

Beaches in Sri Lanka! A land like no other

Next one is for a romantic getaway. Mostly suggested for adventurous couples. (No pun intended!)

The Ark (Mathugama)

Have you ever wondered what it is like to be in Noah’s Ark?

Me neither.

But this Ark is not about fitting the entire population in it! It’s perfect for your honeymoon getaways.

Like I mentioned earlier, you wouldn’t really like it if you are more of a ‘car ride to a romantic hotel nearby’ kind of couple. Because this one is best recommended for the adventurous ones! I’ll tell you why.

First, is the wooden bridge in the Mathugama jungle that you need to trail to get to the boutique hotel. It’s way more adventurous than the other boutique hotels in Sri Lanka when it is rainy! You know, the slippery bridge factor.

Then, the fact that you are going to be on top of a hill. It’s more like a watch-hut what you have here. So, you are literally on top of a hill that gives a thrilling experience!

What is exotically boastful about the Ark is its location on the boarder of the Sinharaja rainforest.

What Makes the Ark Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

Whether you are booking the Ark as your honeymoon getaway or the best accommodation for a solo retreat, you have so much to do here!

Get out of the cosy hotel and spend your day discovering the hidden trails of the Mathugama forest.

Take the extra mile and master the art of rubber-tapping and tea-plucking

Read more

Reasons Why You Should Visit Sri Lanka

Next one is for those who want to stay literally away from the urbanised world! Because unlike in other boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, oil/kerosene lamps replace the mains electricity!

The Mudhouse (Anamaduwa)

The Mudhouse is undoubtedly one of the most unique traditional experiences in any boutique hotels in Sri Lanka.

It’s a perfect getaway for the adventurous travellers, whether you want to travel solo, with the family or your partner!

The best lines to describe this is from W.B. Yeats poem;

“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;”

Located in the most remote location in Puttalam, the Mudhouse is like the perfect escape from the urban world.

Although the real experience of the beauty of the Mudhouse can only be felt once you are there at the location, the idea of this boutique hotel itself is highly fascinating.

Because, imagine yourself in the middle of wetlands that are traditionally criss-crossing to form the ancient irrigation network!

With the breeze caressing your face, the smell of fresh land tingling your nose, you are going to be in a different part of the world completely secluded from the bustles of the city or the urbanising towns.

Not just that, the Mudhouse also is the best go-to boutique hotel in Sri Lanka for you to encounter Sri Lankan birdlife.

It is also one of the best-recommended boutique hotels in Sri Lanka for those who look for green hotels in Sri Lanka.

What Makes the Mudhouse Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

The one unique feature of this boutique hotel is its insight into the ancient lifestyle of the locals in Sri Lanka. It’s a perfect getaway for you, into the traditional life of the multicultural Sri Lankan society. I’d say…a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you shouldn’t miss.

Other experiences at the Mudhouse include;

Tuk ride to the Paramakanda Temple

Kayak and Paddle boarding

Visit the Local Friday market

Learn Sri Lanka’s traditional martial art (Angampora)

Read more

Sri Lanka – The pearl of the Indian ocean

Next in the list of top hotels in Sri Lanka is another eco-lodge like The Ark and Mudhouse you saw above!

Hideout Cabins (Nuwara Eliya)

The Hideout Cabins, just like the name portrays, is a perfect hideout for couples and solos who plan on retreats into the cold Nuwara Eliya woods.

What Makes Hideout Cabins Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

A wooden boutique, built in a unique shape, this boutique hotel in Sri Lanka gives a whole fairy-tale vibe. It’s like the little cottage that Snow White stayed in, in the woods. Except, this one gives you the perfect cosiness in the freezing hills.

Here are other landmarks around the Hideout Cabins that you can visit while cosying in the boutique within a 500m – 2km distance;

The Gregory Lake & Park

Hakgala Botanic Garden

Galway’s Land National Park

Hideout Cabins, just like The Ark, is a ‘must-visit and experience to have’ boutique hotel in Sri Lanka!

Source : Hideout Cabins (Nuwara Eliya)

Read more

The Best Off the Beaten Paths in Sri Lanka

Next, to one of the most-visited and liked boutique hotels in Sri Lanka.

98 Acres Resort (Ella)

Lately, Ella is like a ‘go-to’ tourist spot for both the locals and for those who visit Sri Lanka.

I cannot say its overrated, given its ‘out of the world’ sunrise and breath-taking views during sunsets.

The climb can be a little exhausting (I agree), but that is why the 98 Acres Resort is a perfect choice for the adventurous couples, backpackers and Instagram influencers!

If you are one of those adventure-seekers, then hike, climb or trek to reach the point of the little Adam’s Peak. Trust me, that’s the best way to absorb some of the breath-taking views of the eco-friendly huts, chalets, and villas!  

Tip: Set many alarms as you can to wake up for the sunrise! The misty 5am morning view of the huts aligned in the verdant cliffs, is not something you would want to miss. You might as well need to make sure you have enough storage in your phone. Because, you’ll want to snap away almost everything your eyes catch in the location!

What Makes 98 Acres Resort Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

The resort is another eco-friendly lodge (I must say!) given that the chalets are made of recycled substances, mostly. It’s a luxury experience that you get, as you stay in one of these chic hotels amidst the lush tea bushes covering acres.

The other experiences at the 98 Acres Resort include;

Encountering Sri Lanka’s first-ever zipline (Flying Ravana)

Mastering the art of tea making

Experiencing Archery with the locals

Helicopter rides from the 98 Acres to Colombo

Read more

A holiday to Ella; With great hearts, comes great responsibilities

Next one is off the track because you are going to visit it for the unique work on the interior and architecture!

Boutique Villa (Negombo)

I am not sure if you have this weird desire too, but I have always wanted to live in a half-built house.

What Makes the Boutique Villa Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

Forget about the usual definition of luxury that has painted walls and modern pieces of furniture. At Boutique Villa in Negombo, you’ll literally live in a furnished, yet, half-built hotel. I know it’s a rare type of ‘luxury’, but that is what makes it unique among all other hotels in Sri Lanka.

Another best fact about this Villa is the royal experience you’ll have. Thinking of it in that line, you’ll almost be the king/queen in one of the ancient kingdoms. (with AC and Wi-Fi, of course!)

Your stay at this Villa will give you enough and more unique architectures to explore inside, but if you still want to visit other spots around, then there’s;

The Negombo Beach, located 500m from the Villa.

The Dutch Fort, 6km from the Villa

Read more

Sri Lanka – A melting pot of destinations

Next one in the list of boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, is for those who visit Sri Lanka for the love of Kandy!

Mount Havana Luxury Boutique Villa (Kandy)

Unlike the unending list of fabulous boutique hotels in Kandy, the Mount Havana is literally a piece of heaven tucked away in the hills!

What Makes the Mount Havana Luxury Boutique Villa Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

It is another perfect getaway, for a peaceful stay, free from the busy routines.

Whether you want to capture some of the spectacular views of the verdant hills or lose yourself in the tea fields around, either way, I am sure, once you checkout from the resort, half your heart (will definitely) be in Havana!

The Mount Havana is at the centre of many trademarks in Kandy. Including;;

Embekke Temple – 9.6 km

Ceylon Tea Museum – 14.3 km

Kandy View Point Mountain – 16.8 km

Kandy City Center Shopping Mall (KCC) – 17 km

Sri Dalada Maligawa – 17.3 km

Next on the list of boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, is for the modern adventure lovers.

The Country House Chalets (Galle)

Structured like tree-houses on the ground, the Country House Chalets are masterpieces in the woods.

What Makes the Country House Chalets Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

It is an impossible thought to think of such a boutique hotel in Galle, with the bustling city, it is known for! But, for those who can afford, the stay at the Country House Chalets will be the talk of generations to come in your line.

You can book one of the fine chalets there, depending on the amenities and affordability. Either way, all the chalets have a lot to give you in the getaway woods from Galle.

You can either explore the woods around the Country House Chalets or just stay in your chalet, amidst the tea gardens. The choice is yours!

Tip : The owner of the Country House Chalet is renowned for his extreme hospitality to a lot of those who had stayed here.

Source : The Country House Chalets (Galle)

Next, to a boutique located in the land that is home to the World Heritage in Sri Lanka and final one in our list of best boutique hotels in Sri Lanka.

Water Garden (Sigiriya)

One of my favourites out of all the top boutique hotels in Sri Lanka!

For those who know Sigiriya as a World Wonder, the Water Garden is a wonder in Sigiriya!

What Makes the Water Garden Unique from other Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka?

It is one of the best boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, that again promotes an eco-friendly stay, amidst lakes and water streams.

A photographer could live the life of his dream here, as the hotel gives splendid views of the Sigiriya Rock and also has peacocks’ wandering the land, most of the time!

Besides getting lost in the unexplainable beauty of this boutique hotel, you can also:

Try your hands at Archery.

Spend your time outdoors playing Croquet

Take a guided tour to the Sigirya Lion Rock.

Go on a cultural tour to Dambulla, Polonnaruwa or the Ritigala Monastery.

Enjoy a jeep safari to Minneriya

Read more

My visit to Sigiriya – Sri Lanka

Now that you have your own list of the hidden boutique hotels in Sri Lanka, why wait?

Visit the Travel Center Website now! Our friendly travel agents will help you book your 2021 holidays to Sri Lanka right away! With that, they will also give you the best guide to the hotels that you can book and more places that you can explore in the pearl of the Indian Ocean.  If you had spotted some other hidden gems like these before us, let us know in the comments below!

GET YOUR NEXT HOLIDAY MOOD ON!

Read More:-  The 10 Hidden Boutique Hotels in Sri Lanka

This Article, Information & Images Source (copyright):- Travel Center UK Blog

#travel #travelblog #travelblogger #travelvibes #holidaymakers #travelcenteruk #destinations #srilanka

[zoomology]

Male pūriri moth

Click to zoom in

There are many names for the largest native moth in New Zealand, and much can be gleaned from a name…

The Pūriri Moth (Aenetus virescens)

One of the grub’s main host trees is the pūriri tree (Vitex lucens) hence a common name being the pūriri moth.

The Ghost Moth

Ngāti Kahungunu (the Māori iwi located along the eastern coast of the North Island of New Zealand) tradition describes a grandson of Tāne (the god of the forest), Tūteahuru, and his wife, Hinepeke (jumping woman), producing numerous insects and lizards that dwell within the earth, on the land or stones, and in the water.

One descendant of the couple was the ghost moth (AKA the pūriri moth). As it flies at dusk and into the night – regarded as the realm of spirits – it was known as a spiritual messenger, or a ghost of an ancestor returning to visit their descendants.

The term ‘ghost moth’ confusingly refers to an entire family of moths (Hepialidae) with approximately 500 species worldwide and 28 endemic to New Zealand, the pūriri moth being one of them. This highlights the difficulty inherent in common names. Scientists and taxonomists use Latin binomial names to describe species which often clears up some of the confusion. The pūriri moth’s scientific name is Aenetus virescens.

Pepe Tuna

In the Māori language, ‘pepe tuna’ means ‘eel moth’. This name can be attributed to the practice of using the grubs as eel bait by Māori. The name may also originate from the fact that eels may feed on them while migrating between September and January.

Mokoroa

Mokoroa (long grub or caterpillar) is the Māori name for the grub of the moth, and is used in the saying:

‘He iti mokoroa e hinga pūriri’ ‘A small mokoroa can fell a pūriri tree’.

This serves the purpose of reminding us not to underestimate the impact of small things.

Ngutara and Pungoungou

As for the remaining two Māori names, Ngutara and Pungoungou, I have not been able to find any meaning behind them, but Landcare Research and T.E.R:R.A.I.N have listed them as alternative names. If you know the story behind these two names, please let us know in the comments!

Click to zoom in

The Moth

Pūriri moths can only be found on the North Island. Amazingly, adult female moths can have a wingspan of 15cm. Although not common, they are often drawn to house and street lights near native forest. They are seen in spring and only live a few days as they lack mouth-parts. During this short period, the adults mate and the females lay up to 2000 eggs on the forest floor.

Male and female moths are different. Males are smaller than females and have white markings on their forewings (below right). Although they are usually green, some males are yellow, bluish or white. Females, on the other-hand, are larger with dark markings on their forewings (below left).

Click to zoom in

Pūriri moths are predated upon by birds, namely kākā and ruru/morepork, as well as New Zealand native bats. Unfortunately, introduced possums and cats also have an impact on their numbers.

The Caterpillar

The newly hatched grubs/caterpillars eat fungus growing on fallen trees.

Once fattened up and considerably larger, the caterpillars search for a pūriri tree. The grubs do use other host trees in which to live. A few documented native trees include beech (Fuscospora spp.), putaputawētā (Carpodetus serratus), houhere (Hoheria spp.), mānuka (Leptospermum scoparium), lancewood (Pseudopanax crassifolius), wineberry (Aristotelia serrata) and tītoki (Alectryon excelsus). Some introduced trees have also been utilised by the caterpillars including oak, apple and willow.

They tunnel into the trunk of the tree making a 7-shaped tunnel where they eat the inner bark and outer sapwood for up to 6 years.  The caterpillars make a silk cap at the entrance to the hollow to seal themselves inside. Pupation occurs in the tunnel.

Unsurprisingly, being the largest native moth, they are also our largest native caterpillar reaching 12cm long. Māori would remove the silk caps and pour water into the hollows forcing the grub to evacuate. The grubs would then be used for food or eel bait.

Two male pūriri moths

Click to zoom in

Seeing Them For Ourselves

I had heard a lot about this magnificent, giant, green moth, but had never laid eyes on one. This year, however, my luck was in.

During a visit to our friends’ bach in Taupo, two large green moths came hurtling through the open door almost as soon at the outside light had been turned on. Instantly, Emma and I knew what they were. Both of the moths were male.

Fast forward a few weeks and we accompanied the Natural History Curator of the  Whanganui Museum to Bushy Park for a session of light-trapping and macro work. We had many insects drawn to the trap set up on the edge of the forest next to a wetland, but it was getting late, so we headed back to the car.

Before leaving, we thought we would set up the trap one last time. We set it up in the carpark of all places. To our surprise, we were inundated with pūriri moths, including a large female. With the moths came morepork/ruru which snatched a few of them from beneath our noses.

What a treat to see both male and female pūriri moths, and to have owls swooping in to snatch the odd green morsel!

A ruru/morepork (Ninox novaeseelandiae) – An owl native to New Zealand and Tasmania

Click to zoom in

References and Further Reading

Crowe, Andrew (2002). Which New Zealand Insect?. North Shore: Penguin. p. 44. ISBN 978-0-14-100636-9

Landcare Research – Puriri Moth Factsheet – http://nzacfactsheets.landcareresearch.co.nz/factsheet/InterestingInsects/Puriri-moth—Aenetus-virescens.html (Retrieved 11 January, 2018)

New Zealand Farm Forestry Association Website – Puriri Moth – http://www.nzffa.org.nz/farm-forestry-model/the-essentials/forest-health-pests-and-diseases/Pests/Puriri-moth/Puriri-mothEnt16 (Retrieved 11 January, 2018)

Te Ara website – Puriri Moth – https://teara.govt.nz/en/1966/moth-puriri (Retrieved 11 January, 2018)

Te Ara Website – Story: Te aitanga pepeke – the insect world: Moths – https://teara.govt.nz/en/te-aitanga-pepeke-the-insect-world/page-3 (Retrieved 11 January, 2018)

T.E.R:R.A.I.N – Taranaki Educational Resource: Research, Analysis and Information Network Website – Aenetus virescens (Puriri moth) – http://www.terrain.net.nz/friends-of-te-henui-group/moths/puriri-moth-aenetus-virescens.html (Retrieved 11 January, 2018)

  New Zealand’s Largest & Heaviest Native Moth Click to zoom in There are many names for the largest native moth in New Zealand, and much can be gleaned from a name...

#Aenetus #Aenetus virescens #Entomology #Ghost moth #Hepialidae #Light trap #Mokoroa #Moth #Native #New Zealand #Ngutara #Pepe tuna #Pungoungou #Puriri #Puriri moth

[limejuicer1862]

May 2

..scratching..

quiet now

we can hear the birds no problem one lorry on the road essential travel

then

we hear the scratching

when dark comes comes the scuttlings

flutterings outside

bats fly round our houses

inside others live and die

the fly

&

the moth comes lovely soft and tasteful

nothing distasteful

we saves them lifts them out the bath a dry flannel as assistance

remember that fly in the room you wanted to swat for annoying. left alone it went quietly away

night came full of sounds

mice scratching enough to leave

marks

enough to leave marks

the fly does

buzz when it flies buzz as it dies

zzzzzt

-sonia benskin mesher

*

Inclined to mention the halo of a mountain, somewhere I am fourteen years old. This is a mountain behind a house where I still remain, in this thought-process, every child chews spearmint gum. It is definitely spearmint gum, and the mountain is only a halo, now, this time, elsewhere. Like, I don’t know, like Mark Fisher says, this stasis has been buried – ‘the inventor of the term, a frustrating thinker’.

*

In the summer’s taped shut windows, without seeing flies in years.

Hit mosquitos against the wall, once observing blood left behind.

-Alex Mazey

Geyser

Soul rumbles as grumble dark bellows push their boiling fist. Hot drops, boiled rain.

Angry fats splatter into faint signs, streaks of early mournful light.

Fire waters bubble and churn chained by conventions, damned by convection. In breaking songs of earth’s heat, brash displays of prorogued grief.

Water crouches, fluid evasive. As pain it cannot be broken. Desire free to flow, hurt a haunt of generations.

So strictures die and violence will be a multiple of passing times.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/geyser.m4a

-©️ Dai Fry 1st May 2020.

In memory of those left behind : 9 December 2019

Sun’s first sleep-breath sweets the dropped shoulder of te puia whakaari, her bones

in early mistlight, are all grace and delicate pickings, gulled clavicles of a hard dancer, stilled. Coiled tension, resting.

It is hard to recognise a haunting, in the rose-gilt of sunrise. Do you know her name? When you recognised it, did you forget to exhale? Release your living now to cloud

the pane we do not see – watch deep scratches creep across this vision. The guardians are always here, and the light oh the light may change any moment.

-Ankh Spice

The Yellow Forest

Awakening – Dry mouth burning eyes skin burn, breathe. Pin point vision echoing mission failed fission, inhale. Heavy feet slow reaction no connection – A siren a siren! Wake up stand up react retract, breathe.

Forest Walk – Dislodge move seek react engage stop! Burning embers leaves glowing eagles falling feathers floating, breathe. Listen observe – A lark hark the warning A flash a flash, breathe. Eyes open sight broken, breathe.

Chokehold – Black river dead fish foul odour slow down, Breathe. Soil on fire charcoal roots sprouting rotten fruit – Stop smell retreat, breathe. Dead of night presence sucking remaining air laboured breathing heartbeat slowing – Find the opening, breathe. Look beware – Run!

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-yellow-forest-mp3.mp3

The Gamdroela

Far beyond the Hottentotshuisie Mountains, a mythical creature awaits to reward the chosen one – Elected by the Bokmakierie Korrelkop, a strange elusive soothsayer, traditionally enshrined to make a wise choice – A new ruler for the remote Belhar nation to once again wear the sacred crown of Sekueb Nodmai, she whose voice still echo from deep within the Bolemakiesie marshlands – A treacherous journey awaits the young Tandpyn, Prince of the Bloekomboom tree nation, whose Lands have nearly been scorched bare by the Fiery blizzards of Macassar – Now charged with the ultimate sacrifice, crossing the Moddergat fynbos wetlands to eventually reach the steep trail leading up to Fluweeltjie – Lair of the ancient Gamdroela , a kleurvolle Colourful but powerful oracle who will Decide on the worthiness of the young Tandpyn…

-Don Beukes

The Dream

I had a dream last night Of walking thru a forest-like place Filled with earthy illuminances

I could barely make out the sharp Round edges of branches and limbs Bathed in a heavenly glow

These trees, so strange yet so familiar These giants, so murky yet so real Their aromatic odors filled my essence

And for the briefest of moments I believed to be back home among these ancient pines Until my eyes opened to the sterile white walls

-Carrie Ann Golden

Fly Away, Dream

When television broadcasting Ended after late night news And comedy shows, yellow, blue, magenta hues

On test patterns Would send humanity To bed, to fly away wistfully,

As on insect wings, To a place of dreams And endless possibilities.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/fly-away-dream.m4a

-st

flaiku

what to us is dross is a rainbow to the fly perspective is key

-Rich Follett

Her Splash Of Veins

flutters, is still, proboscis twitch. Flutters, is still, twitch.

Splash of wheat in fields, Flutters as flywings.

Strands of wheat flywalk skin as she passes she swats the touch away.

Till as she treads down more stalks into the unmade bread of the field bunches of wheat stroke her thighs and she smiles at the bright sun of it all.

Snatches a stalk, lets it hang from her mouth a proboscis tremble in the gust of her dreams of flight above the ready to be harvested grain rises toward sun blaze newly risen

warm bread a splash of veins in full colour, breathes in her baked youth like goodness.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/her-splash-of-veins.m4a

-Paul Brookes Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/12/18/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-alex-mazey/

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com.)

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at http://www.richfollett.com. He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.

now

lives and works in North Wales as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide. Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/10/16/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-sonja-benskin-mesher/

-Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on smashwords.com and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Website: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com Twitter: @honestypoetry

Here is my 2020 interview of her:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2020/04/08/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-samantha-terrell/

-Don Beukes

is a South African and British writer. He is the author of ‘The Salamander Chronicles’ (CTU) and ‘Icarus Rising-Volume 1’ (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, editor of Scarlet Leaf Review for the ‘Best of the Net’ in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology ‘In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection’ in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second ‘Cape Sounds’ in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’/Thus Passes the Glory of this World’ is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

Here is my interview of Don Beukes:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/11/02/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-don-beukes/

-Dai Fry

is an old new poet. He worked in social care but now has no day job. A keen photographer and eater of literature and lurid covers. Fascinated by nature, physics, pagans, sea and storm. His poetry seeks to capture image and tell philosophical tales. Published in Black Bough Poetry, Re-Side, The Hellebore Press and the Pangolin Review. He can be seen reading on #InternationalPoetryCircle and regularly appears on #TopTweetTuesday. Twitter. @thnargg Web    seekingthedarklight.co.uk

Audio/Visual.       @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter #TopTweetTuesday

-Paul Brookes

is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018), Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), Stubborn Sod, with Marcel Herms (artist) (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). Forthcoming Khoshhali with Hiva Moazed (artist), Our Ghost’s Holiday (Final book of threesome “A Pagan’s Year”) . He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews.

-Mary Frances

is an artist and writer based in the UK. She takes a few photos every day, for inspiration and to use in her work. The images for this project were all taken in the last two years on walks during in the month of May. Her words and images have been published by Penteract Press, Metambesen, Ice Floe Press, Burning House Press, Inside the Outside, Luvina Rivista Literaria, and Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness. Twitter: @maryfrancesness

-James Knight

is an experimental poet and digital artist. His books include Void Voices (Hesterglock Press) and Self Portrait by Night (Sampson Low). His visual poems have been published in several places, including the Penteract Press anthology Reflections and Temporary Spaces (Pamenar Press). Chimera, a book of visual poems, is due from Penteract Press in July 2020.

Website: thebirdking.com.

Twitter: @badbadpoet

Here is my interview of James Knight:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/06/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-james-knight/

Welcome to a special ekphrastic challenge for May. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham will be the inspiration for writers, Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja menskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes and myself. May 2nd May 2 ..scratching.. quiet now we can hear the birds no problem one lorry on the road essential travel…

[starlit-scifi]

Chapter 12

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Life goes on.

Crawling, flying, swimming, or moving around in a microscopic pulsating spinning way, life keeps performing its everyday functions, just one piece of the unfathomably complicated puzzle that is a living, breathing planet. You're just there to observe, measure, and catalog it.

Life goes on.

Walking, talking, working, or sitting in the comfortable silence you've come to enjoy, life keeps pulling you closer, a deep bond growing where you're not sure you should want one, and maybe not even sure you do want one— so, you decide, you're just going to observe, measure, and catalog it.

One of the things people say about space travel that you didn't really believe until you’d experienced it yourself was just how much the subtle differences in atmosphere, gravity, and ambient light affect the way your body functions. As comfortable as Unity's artificial environment is, being on this planet— a paradise planet, they call it, one of a handful of truly Earth-like worlds— makes you feel happier and healthier than anywhere else. The air isn't sterile and recycled, the gravity is constant, and the feeling of real, gloriously warm sunlight on your skin never gets old.

Your home planet, Irthtu, is close to Earth-like, though its temperatures are at the cold end of the habitable range. The icy, densely forested planet seemed like paradise to colonists who remembered their great-grandparents' tales of a dying planet that had lost its ice caps and rainforests, becoming half firestorm-plagued desert and half brackish wetland. To a young girl with an allergy to lab-grown wool and an aversion to the cold and wet, Irthtu was anything but paradise This part of Bernubos-3, wet as it is, is much more comfortable in terms of temperature.

Lori hasn't had many complaints about the heat either, which you assume is partly because the habitable regions of Lotanak are similar in temperature, though far drier since there's only so much water that can be generated or captured from comets. Unlike this planet, however, Lotanak's ecosystem isn't very exciting to study since it's just a meticulously designed piece of biological clockwork. The terraforming of Lotanak is a work of art, a monumental achievement of science and engineering, but the ecosystem is evolutionarily fixed by design and, in essence, just as sterile as the environment aboard any Alliance starship. But this planet, the way that everything happened to fall into place in a pattern suitable for human life at this moment in geological time, is quite literally one in a million, at least.

And the way this has all fallen into place, you and her and this grand adventure you're taking together…

It's really nothing special, you remind yourself. You're partners, just like all the students before you and those that will come after. You're here for the project, and when it's done and you graduate you'll go your separate ways, and go back to your separate lives. 

You sigh.

"What's up?" Lori looks up from the satellite receiver setup she's been fiddling with while you count your soil microbes.

You turn away from the microscope and let your eyes rest for a minute.

"Life."

---

There's a large underground lake you've been working your way towards this entire time, and two and a half weeks in, you finally reach it.

“Okay, this is going to be cool. And I don't just mean because it'll be about ten degrees cooler than the surface temperature.”

Lori snorts. “Thank the stars.”

“Yeah. But there's this species of bioluminescent aquatic fungus that’s found in this cave, and there's bound to be more really unique stuff down there. We just have to take samples and find out.”

“And that's what we've been lugging these around for?” She asks, pulling a pair of wading pants from her pack and handing them to you.

“We've made use of them! —but this was sort of the main reason, yeah.” You pull your boots off and tug the waders on, securing the waistband the best you can. “We go as deep as we can walk, which is decently far since the lake is pretty shallow. It'll be worth it, trust me.”

You leave everything behind but your headlamps and the equipment you've brought, and descend into the cave. Nearly instantaneously, it's blissfully cool. You walk onward for a few minutes, pausing when your feet hit water.

She looks back at you. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Water sloshes around your feet, your calves, your thighs as you wade into the lake.

“Okay,” you say, when you think you've gone deep enough, reaching up to your headlamp. “Lights out.”

Lori nods and flicks the switch on her own lamp, and you both wait in silence as your eyes adjust.

The fungi are everywhere, floating on the water, sticking to the walls. You trail your gloved hand in the water, and they flicker and swirl like the arms of a spiral galaxy. Lori stands still, her lips parted slightly and eyes wide in wonder. In the soft light, she almost seems to glow too, and for a moment you're mesmerized by the beauty of it all.

“I've never, ever seen anything like this,” she says softly, turning slowly in the water. “Thanks for putting this in the plan,” she adds. “Wow, it's just… wow.”

A fizzy warmth blooms in your chest, and you can't make it stop. You don't want it to stop. You know you need to tell the truth to her, somehow…

“I wanted to do something special, to make you happy. I… I like…” You feel numb and electric all at the same time. “That you're a good partner,” you ramble on. “You're nice.” Aaand I'm an idiot, you think to yourself. She can't see you blushing. There is no way she can see you blushing.

“Thank you,” she replies with a smile, but she definitely sounds confused.

Probably because you've got everything confused! There's no way there's actually anything there.

“Well, we should get to taking samples,” you say, and click the lamp back on. She blinks for a moment, and the magic moment is truly gone.

"Right. Okay. Just talk me through it again, please." There's a sort of stiff formality to her tone that you hadn't heard from her in weeks.

She feels awkward, you realize. I've made things awkward and I don't know if I can fix it again… 

You stumble through the procedure once more, looking down at the water-collecting device in your hands rather than daring to look at her face. You're afraid of what you'll see there, that this sort of nice companionship you've had might be gone for good.

You work in silence. The only sounds are the soft distant dripping of water and an occasional quiet curse from Lori when the valve on the water collector gets stuck again. You glance over at her every once in a while, until you happen to catch her looking up at you.

"What's up?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "It… just looks like I'm about done here."

"Okay. Cool." She counts the vials in their case. "I've got everything too."

"Great. Thanks."

"Mm-hm."

You return to the surface in that same strange uneasy silence. There's not much to say, after all. The cacophony of insect and reptile life is almost soothing, compared to the total mess your feelings are right now. She doesn't seem to want to make much conversation either, so you walk behind her in silence.

Once you've made it back to the campsite and she's gone out to forage, you have just enough time alone to cry it all out.

I've messed everything up!

I should be completely focused on the project and nothing else!

I shouldn't have let my feelings take control of me!

I shouldn't have let myself feel anything at all...

---

At this point in the solar cycle, dusk falls just after dinnertime—not the prelude to true nightfall quite yet, but a long twilight where the animal life of the forest becomes highly active. After being dive-bombed by one too many moths as well as the flying reptiles that appear to be their main predators, the two of you decide it's better to bring your work and those insect-luring lamps into the tent, cramped and stuffy as it might be. Though you've slept in this tent for weeks now and done homework together for months before that, working at the same time in these close quarters now feels different enough to put you strangely on edge. Maybe it's just the change of scenery, maybe it's your worrying about what happened in the cave earlier—or maybe it's that you've talked so much for so long that you seem to have run out of small talk.

"What's it like, having that arranged marriage?" Lori asks out of the blue as you're entering the day's data. You look over at her, a little startled, but she doesn't look up—she’s focused on fixing her radio antenna that got knocked over by, presumably, a flying lizard. "I mean, clearly you don't care much for the guy. And most Tusies I know disregard the whole thing during their time at Unity, so…"

You bite your lip, unsure what she wants to know, or really why this is coming up all of a sudden. You decide you may as well start from the beginning. "It was set up when I turned thirteen… everyone else I knew was getting theirs done too. The blood tests, the physical, all of that. The genetic screening part of it is a planet-wide program that creates a huge database of compatible partners  —didn't you have to do the same when you reached puberty?"

She shakes her head. "I don't have to until I choose someone I'd want to procreate with. I had my genome done for Unity, but that's different."

"Right. Well… after that, it was just a matter of waiting for the results to come back—and there's hundreds of candidates, usually. Then your parents help you narrow it down to people with similar interests and goals, people closer to your age who live nearby…"

"And people whose parents have something your parents want."

"Sort of, yeah." You shrug awkwardly. “In the end, it is your choice —I was nearly eighteen when I'd finally decided on mine. Most girls usually figure it out by fifteen. It was—" You laugh, feeling your cheeks go hot, "Really awkward, dragging my dates along to all these gatherings with much younger people. But I ended up with a decent one, I think."

"You said he's so boring your parents will probably break it off for you, though."

"I… I don't know. I feel like I'm always going back and forth on it." You sigh, staring at the data table floating in front of you. "All I have to do is produce a kid. Even artificially fertilized embryos will do. Artificial gestation is expensive, but if I'm the one who's going to have a real career —especially one involving frequent space travel— carrying a fetus is really out of the question anyway. My mom had to put her whole career on hold when she got pregnant, but thankfully I don't have to do the same if I don't want to."

As you've babbled on awkwardly, her expression has gone blank. Finally, she says. "You have it all thought out, don't you?"

"I don't," you say, laughing awkwardly in an effort to dispel the tightness in your stomach. "It's all thought out for me, really."

"Hm." She's silent for a moment, and you sneak a glance at her. She's frowning as she tries to pry a panel off the side of the receiver box. You return to your work. "But…" she asks suddenly, "besides all those… gatherings, with your marriage candidates, have you ever actually dated anyone?"

"No…" You fidget with your fingers until you realize you're toggling back and forth between spreadsheet tabs. "I had a few little… flings, I guess, in secondary," you say, silently praying your face isn't as red as you think it is, "but nothing serious, especially once I'd picked my match."

She turns to face you fully now, the antenna forgotten. "How do you know what you want, then?"

"What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "It sounds like your parents just picked a bunch of really similar guys, and then you dragged your feet until you had to pick someone you didn't really like and still haven't connected with." Her sharp gaze cuts through your every pretense. "It sounds like you've never really experienced what's out there."

"When you put it that way…" you murmur.

She raises an eyebrow. "It sounds really fucking miserable?"

You shrug awkwardly. "Yeah, but… it's just how things are. I can't change that."

"But… What happens if you're not attracted to guys?"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, it's not like I have to actually sleep with him, thank the stars. It can all be done in a lab, from fertilization to the first breath. He doesn't even have to be on the same continent, really. His material can be mailed."

She snorts. "Who needs to make love when you've got science?"

"It's a matter of convenience, that's all," you mutter, your face hot.

"Convenience," she says dryly. "Must be nice."

"Yeah, well… I don't know. It's complicated. I don't really want to worry about it right now." She shrugs and turns back to her work; you enter in your last few data points and start to save and close out of everything. As you take off your control bracelets, you ask hesitantly, "On… on your planet, is it usually inconvenient?"

"What?"

"Starting a family."

"No… I mean, it's easy enough to produce a child the normal way, and most people are good about planning for it. Accidents happen, but usually families are strong enough that if you end up pregnant, you have support." She frowns as she wiggles a connector into place. "It's not easy, having to suddenly provide for one more, but… people find a way." She connects the battery pack, and nods in satisfaction when the indicator lights on the antenna come on. "The thing is, I'm not from a big family. I'm an only child. All three of my parents have lots of siblings and niblings, but I know they'd like grandbabies too. Which sucks, because besides the obvious risks of my future career, I'm also not attracted to men at all."

"Ah." So that bit of gossip was right, you think. "But what about IVG?" She raises an eyebrow. "The… the thing with two egg cells that—"

She shakes her head. "Can't afford it. Won't be able to afford it, probably. A donor would work, but it's still a hassle, and still expensive. It's hardly ever a covered procedure and pretty much all of the Alliance's allowance goes to just surviving." She starts to screw the panel back on.

"I'm sorry," you murmur.

"Why?" She asks over the soft buzz of the electric screwdriver.

"Here I am talking about having the kind of money to grow a fetus in a tank, and you're worrying about your entire family having enough to live."

"You can't change the way things are," she says quietly. There's no kindness in her voice—but no blame, either.

"I can't." You think about the man you're supposed to marry for a moment, the dullness in his eyes and his habit of scratching at his pimples. "It's… inconvenient."

She shrugs and starts to put away her tools, and you get up to put the airscreen computer to charge and pull down the blinds for the night. You both work in silence, your mind lost in thoughts of home, and you wonder where her thoughts are. By the time you've both laid down, you're dying to know but terrified to ask, but as your head sinks into your pillow you find that you're honestly too exhausted to think much more on the matter. You feel yourself drifting off, until her voice snatches you back.

"Muhh?"

"You should really tell your parents, you know."

For some reason nervousness twists in your belly. "About what?"

"That you're not into any of the men they picked. That you probably won't ever be." There's a gentleness in her voice, but all it makes you feel is a weird electric tension.

"Things would get messy," you whisper.

"Messy is better than miserable."

"Do you really think so?"

There's a brief silence, then she sighs. "Honestly, I don't know," she says wearily. "But I've never gotten anywhere good by lying to myself or anyone."

"Hmm."

"Either way, you don't have to worry about any of it for about three weeks, right? You have time to—" she yawns. "—figure things out. Stars, I'm so tired."

"We don't have to go anywhere tomorrow, so you can sleep in. I can take your measurements and stuff, it's no big deal."

"I think I'll take you up on that offer," she says, snuggling up against her pillow. You get comfortable in your own sleeping bag.

"Aurie?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for today. The cave, everything." Her voice is low and warm when she adds, "I really liked it."

"You're welcome," you murmur, and your heart is suddenly beating way, way too fast.

Keep it together, you tell yourself. Just… keep it together.

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#update #original writing #original sci fi #wlw sci fi #space lesbians #starlitscifi #i hope yall are doing well #and i hope my work can bring a little joy to these dark times

[silencedlittlebirdy]

Conquering a World: Part 7

Chapter 7 on AO3

Chad was watching me. I could feel his gaze on my back. Squishy was basking in the attention that Kelsey was giving it. She was the only one that Squishy would go to, the rest of the time he stuck to my shoulder with his tail wrapped around my neck loosely. I was working on slowly backing away. Kelsey gave him one of the kitty treats (he loved them), gaining his full attention. I backed away while he was facing her and jogged over to where Chad was. “What?” “What?” I rolled my eyes. “You were staring.” “Oh, sorry. I was…thinking.” “Dangerous thing, Frodo,” I teased in a serious way. He cracked a half-smile. “How did I know you’d have a smart-alek response to that?” “I’m consistent?” I guessed with a shrug. “We should add that to your profile,” He joked. “Oh yeah.” I glanced at my watch. “Okay, I’m going back to that wetland.” “The pool?” “I’d tell you how wrong that is, but I still need to get away from Squishy because he’s really attached to me.” I glanced back and started moving toward the wetland. “I can listen and walk, can you walk and talk?” He kept up with me. “I can.” “So, explain it to me.” I started telling him about hydrology, specialized plant communities, landscape topography, soils, and groundwater versus other water sources “Crap…that sounds complicated.” “And that’s just what I can remember from the one class on wetland ecology I took. I still have the textbook, though. I still have a lot of my textbooks. Which is good, because I can’t retain all of that knowledge.” “I’m still a little surprised about wetlands not just being the standing water…” “Dude, for that class I had a lab with it and we tramped all around this sphagnum bog, it was really hard, because we would stop and our boots would make a suctioning sound when we tried to walk again.” I grinned, then stopped. “Right, boots. Might want those.” I pivoted and headed back toward the house. “Oh…um…why?” “It’s a wet-land, and I might find one that’s…I don’t know…wetter? But I don’t want to get wet. Making sense?” “Yes, I’ll meet you back here?” I nodded and hurried back to my house, climbing up the stairs and then pushing through my shoes to my rubber muck boots. “Hello old friends, how big of a blister will we get today?” I ditched my hiking boots and put the muck boots on, then tromped (there’s no other way of movement in those things) down and out to the spot we said we would meet. He came out in a hurry. “Run. Mom said she was going to order you to take a couple days vacation.” “I can’t run in these boots.” I started walking as quickly as I could toward the wilderness, and beyond that the destination of the wetland that I was definitely using as a distraction from chemically examining plants to determine their uses, functions, and other such fascinating things that make me want a building to collapse on me. We didn’t speak until after we had paused, much deeper in the wilderness. We were pretty much the only people who dared venture this far still. The others stayed around the edges. Patricia went in a little, but that was just to see what she would be studying. Finally Chad sighed. “Okay, I need to talk to you.” “Uh oh, I should I be concerned.” “Fay.” “What? It’s a legitimate question.” I saw the look on his face and held my hands up in surrender. “Sorry. What’s up?” “You know, right?” I frowned, confused. “What?” “You know…you don’t know. I should have known that you didn’t know. Oh crap.” He was muttering to himself now. I nervously cracked my knuckles. “Um…know what? What don’t I know? That everyone is going to die?” “No! Well, hopefully not yet. No.” He sighed again, looking frustrated. “Fay, you know who I’ve chosen, right?” “Um…no…but I might have been zoned out when I was told…” “Nobody told you, I didn’t tell anybody.” “Then how am I supposed to know?” I asked, thoroughly confused. “God, Fay! It’s you!” “Okay, I know I’m pretty good at guessing things and noticing things but that’s not something that I make assumptions about.” “No!” He groaned, rubbing his face. “I chose you! I choose you.” I dropped my clipboard. He just looked at me for about five minutes. “Fay?” I held up my finger. “Can you hold that thought for…just a minute.” He rubbed his neck. “Um…sure.” I nodded and wrestled to get my boots off, then my socks. I set my clipboard down on a convenient rock. “What are you doing?” “When I get nervous I get warm, and my feet always boil in these boots and if my feet are hot then the rest of me is hot and I can’t think when I’m hot,” I rambled, running both of my hands through my hair. “How did this happen?” “What?” “You, me, chose?” My ability to word was going rapidly downhill. He sighed. “I know it’s not exactly romantic.” “Didn’t expect it to be.” I parked my feet on some moss-like plant. “Also didn’t expect it to be me.” “Fay, Ava and I can’t even hold a civil conversation. She keeps looking at me like I’m the last man on earth and she’s decided that she’s a lesbian if that’s the case.” “She’s not,” I offered. “I know, that’s beside the point though. I thought you would realize that I was choosing to spend time with you. That I was trying to get to know you. Which is not easy, you are…not easy to get to know because you have this front of complete openness and honesty but you’re also so introverted that half the time I don’t think you realize your thoughts on something until a few minutes after you have the thoughts.” “Sad, but accurate.” “And I keep finding out more areas that you’re smart in. Like seriously, why do you know all this plant stuff, but also music and cooking and even animals, but also like aliens and just people. Like, is there anything you don’t know?” “Math beyond pre-calc and statistics. Engineering. Construction. Medicine.” “And even then, you seem to know a lot of medicinal plants in the yards.” “It was a hobby in high school. Music was something I did while I was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life, cooking is essential to life. Animals…well, I have dogs, cats, and chickens plus we did do a little bit of animal studying because as a forester I also need to be able to discuss habitat creation and wildlife impacts on a stand of trees. I just…if something really catches my attention I remember it because I want to learn about it. And don’t knock my fix-it knowledge. My dad taught me stuff.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” He chuckled. I took a deep breath. “Which is probably also why I know that you like your bacon crispy, your eggs fried, if you’re going to have a pasta dish it has to be lasagna but if it has ricotta cheese you won’t eat it. Your favorite color is blue, you like being outside, you probably should have been in ecology or some other nature related field. You like dogs, and are indifferent to cats, you wanted a pet pig when you were eighteen because you wanted to watch it grow fat and then eat it. Which is slightly sadistic, but I understand considering I’m now raising chickens. When you’re worried, one side of your mouth frowns. You look at me like that a lot. And…” It all came together. “I’m a complete idiot because I did notice. Cue awkward silence.” He was looking at me with surprise and amusement. “Have we even had lasagna since coming here?” “First week. It was something Patricia had in her freezer. You and I were the ones who secretly fed ours to the dogs because of the ricotta cheese and I made you eggs when we went to my house to plan our expedition.” He thought about it for a moment. “I forgot about that.” “It was a few months ago.” He examined me for a while. “How’s your lasagna making skills?” “Why?” “It’s one of my favorite meals, but my mom changed recipes a few years ago and now I don’t like hers.” He took a step toward me. “Well, are we using canned sauce, or am I using my lasagna sauce recipe?” I asked, putting one foot on top of the other. “Recipe.” He took another step closer. “It’s a good recipe. Always makes too much sauce for the lasagna, but that freezes and we can always use it for spaghetti or something.” I pushed my bangs to the side again, watching him step closer. “Cheese?” “Mozzarella and provolone, shredded to make the layers more evenly cheesed. Cook the noodles with a little salt and oil. Eat the extra noodles just like that. Sometimes make it with pepperoni, most of the time with just ground beef.” He was barely a foot away now. “Sounds like a pretty good lasagna.” I nodded. “It’s a good recipe. My grandma always ruined it by adding Velveeta.” “Oh, no. No no.” I nodded. “That’s what we thought, but you can’t say anything to someone whose taste buds just don’t exist anymore.” He tilted my chin up so that I was looking at his face. “How are you so confident and yet so…not.” I swallowed. “Ogres are like onions, we have many layers.” He looked at me strangely. “Did you just quote Shrek?” I hesitated, then emphatically nodded. “I can’t help it. With Ava’s sister, we could talk entirely in quotes all day. My brother used to say he was slaying orcs when he went to the bathroom. My family’s weird, her family’s weird, our families bonded over weirdness. And church.” “Church?” “We went to the same one.” “Right,” he said, looking more amused by the second. “This really makes you nervous.” “I never dated. I went on two dates and technically the one doesn’t count. I’ve never been the girl that guys were interested in. I was always the invisible girl standing next to my sister as the guys flirted with her because she’s gorgeous friendly and I’m not.” “Two?” He didn’t look like he believed me. “I don’t think either of them actually count completely as dates.” I made a face at my boots. “Didn’t you go to a school that was like…eighty percent guys?” “Something like that. I had a pixie cut. I loved that pixie cut. Only reason I grew my hair back out was because everyone thought I was lesbian just because I had a pixie cut. Oh, and lipstick is intimidating apparently. And I wasn’t exactly skinny, I worked most of that off not too long ago. It was not easy.” I folded my arms, still staring at my boots. “You would look adorable with a pixie cut.” “Thank you for that choice word that will ensure that I don’t do that.” I grabbed my clipboard and boots. “Fay, you know what I mean. It would look really good on you. Adorable isn’t a bad thing.” “Yeah, I had a bitch ruin that adjective for me.” I hesitated. “I mean…witch. Gosh, that just sort of slipped out.” “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before.” “Well, she was one. I just don’t normally come out and say it. Huh. I think I’m shutting down.” “Don’t do that, we’re not done. This is happening.” “I don’t know how I feel about that.” He caught my hand and pulled me to him, then kissed me. I stared at him after the contact was severed. “Guess you’ll have to figure it out.” He shrugged, smiling. “That was…” My hand pointed and then didn’t. “That was really good.” He shook his head. “Let’s head back. I think you’re broken.” “Can’t break something that was never together in the first place.” “Are you sane?” “Look where we are, now answer the same question about yourself. If the answer is yes, then you’re a liar.” “And you’re back. That didn’t take long. You live in a realm that balances between substantial conversation, playful banter, and deep talks without any regard for romantic encounters.” “Yes, because romantic encounters only actually has one mark on it’s board and it’s that kiss that we just had.” “I guess that’s another thing we’ll have to work on.” “Okay you need to stop.” “And if I don’t?” “I’ll remind you that if we aren’t paying attention something could attack and kill one of us.” “Right, shutting up.” “I mean, it’s a problem if you die. If I die you just have to go with Ava.” “Shut up and pay attention Fay. That can’t happen, Fay.” He looked deeply concerned about that outcome. “I thought you two were at least civil.” “Barely, the girl is more closed up than a clam. She acts like I’m the worst thing since nuclear bombs.” “Yeah…she’s not good at emotions. Or friendliness towards people she hasn’t known for three years.” “I even tried to talk to her about books. I’ve the chronicles of Narnia and Lord of the Rings, and the Hobbit. I’ve read all of those other books that you and I keep talking about…I tried talking movies, and Star Trek is literally the only common ground I’ve been able to find so far.” “Ugh, she’s a year older than me. Why do I have to tell her how to people?” “Because you’ve successfully peopled?” “Well, yeah. I went to college. Worked at a Taco Bell. That was hell. People were decent. Smelling like tacos, was not, and neither was dealing with the customers.” He chuckled. “What about the food?’ “You know how people say that they can’t eat somewhere because they’ve worked there?” “Yeah,” He looked concerned. “I have three things that I will order from their menu, otherwise it’s a big no. Not happening. Now I want quesodillas.” “I will second that motion.” He caught my hand and pulled me around to kiss me again. Then again. “Sorry, I had to do that.” “Had to? Dang, I take it you’re not acting on want to right now. Come on, we’re literally not out of the woods.” “You’re a Swiftie.” “And nothing anybody says can change that.” “You’re not one to be easily changed.” “Indeed. I’m stubborn. It’s in my profile.” We got out of the woods and I set down my boots and clipboard. “Now what?” I asked him. Not sure where to go from here. He folded his arms, looking at me. “I’ll make you a deal.” “Let’s hear it.” “I handle the romantic stuff for the first week. That includes getting you familiar with kissing me, making eye contact, hugs, and planning dates. After the first week, you handle the romance for a week, just so we can both see how you do. Then we just continue. We don’t have to do anything more right now. Just as long as we both know that this how it’s going to be. We already talk all the time. And we hang out all the time. We work together, we eat together, we face our future under alien dictatorship together…” “Right, aliens. Almost forgot about that factor,” I said, glad my sarcasm was understood by him. Sometimes it went over Ava’s head because she didn’t always know how to do it. He grinned at me. “And let’s face it. We make an excellent team.” “We do.” “So for us, it’s just adding a little more to our current relationship. Deepening the connection.” He lightly brushed my face with his hand. Dang. Dang dang dang. “I guess that’s true.” “Fay and Chad…” Traaiillooonn asked, sounding a little nervous. Chad looked vaguely annoyed. “Yeeesss?” “There is an issue with the Squishy.” I nodded. “Be along in a second.” Traaiillooonn nodded, bobbing his head, whiskers and antennae twitching, and scurried off. “There really isn’t very much privacy around here, is there.” “Chad, that was my cue to go handle the problem.” “So?” “So, maybe I should go handle the problem.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “Or maybe we should ignore the problem and let others take some responsibility for once. You’ve done enough. Come on. I’ve been holding out on you. I’ve got a fully charged DVD player and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” I felt my eyes widen slightly, and a grin spread across my face. “I love that movie.” “I know,” he said. I bit my lip. “You don’t think it’s something super important?” “I don’t. If it had been, there would be scream and Traaiillooonn would be hiding.” “Point taken,” I conceded. “So?” I smiled, biting lip guiltily. “Popcorn?” “Oh, definitely.”

@riptidethepen @mrsmalch

Hey, if anybody wants to be added to the tag list, please let me know. I don’t always get notified of responses on my older posts.

#conquering worlds is just a hobby #humans are weird #outer space

[brian-wellson]

I: Stormwind City, the day of the shooting. June, 31 ADP.

“Why can’t you just come back?” asked Venifica softly. She sat on the edge of his heavy walnut desk, cradling her pregnant belly with her right arm; the baby had finally turned, and she thought it to be several weeks late.

“There’s simply too much to do with the closing of the shipping company, the shuttering of our Drænor operation, the paper mill, our constituents –”

“All of that will still be here tomorrow,” she replied. “Just come back. Meet with that White bastard, handle his bullshit, and just come back.”

Wellson ran his fingers along the edge of his desk. A breeze rolled through his office window carrying the Academy’s philosophical discourse. He loved that about his office. Summer was approaching, and the honeysuckle had blossomed early. The sweet words slipped across his desk and evaporated as quickly as they had occurred.

“Why do you want me to meet with him?” he asked. Venifica smiled; she told him.

He would never remember her answer, but could never forget her smile.

II: Swamp Castle (Wetlands). Present day.

“…‘all three are now being sought in regards to the attack on Lady Raschel as well as for the escape of Miss Dove from her Abjuration earlier this year’…?” Kestrel let their copy of the Courier fall to the table. “What is this?”

Lark looked off to her side uncomfortably while Magpie knit her shawl unperturbed. They remained mute. As did Albatross, to Kestrel’s surprise. Swan stepped between the two accused and the their three comrades. Fire crackled in the fireplace. The old windmill ground grain, stone on stone. Early morning insects sizzled on the marsh.

“Why can’t you just go back?” asked Lark.

“Why can’t I just… are you kidding me?”

“Why can’t you go back?” she asked again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were doing the right thing.”

Kestrel looked at her, his face contorted; it wore a heavy, dreadful expression. He itched his brow with the back of his thumbnail and ran his hand across his cheek. Albatross looked over; his interest had been piqued.

III: Au’llon Estate (Elwynn Forest). April, 31 ADP.

“I wish I could be there, to be the first to blood you,” Wellson had told Kiernan, Venifica’s son from a prior marriage. Henry Rollins was going to take the young man on a fox hunt that morning. Wellson had planned on doing so, but he had been called back to the Keep. Venifica watched them from the stairs, polished marble melting into the portico. She was gravid, and looked exhausted as she leaned against the swirling marble balustrade.

“It’s ok, father,” the young blonde boy had replied. “I know you’re busy.”

Wellson kissed the boy on the head. Venifica held her hand out for the boy. Why can’t you just stay back? he had thought to himself.

IV: Swamp Castle (Wetlands). Present day.

Osprey leaned over the table toward Lark. Her undershirt hung from her shoulders and did little to cover her chest. Her eyes were cold, they were harsh.

“It’s a capital offense,” she said. Her lip twitched.

“I know that,” said Lark. Her face flushed. She backed away a step. “But before that, why couldn’t he go back?”

Kestrel’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rumbled as he suppressed a cough. Osprey shot him a knowing glance.

“I could not go back because of my ex-wife,” he said once he had worked through the spasm.

“Come on,” said Lark. “She can’t have been that bad.”

Kestrel’s hands tightened on the back of the wooden chair.

V: Fort Wrynn (Talador). October, 30 ADP.

“She’s pregnant,” Wellson had said.

Quai continued to sharpen a dagger against an oiled whetstone. As good as the arsenal of Fort Wrynn had proved to be, she preferred her own set of blades to standard issue.

“Is it yours?” she asked.

Wellson pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath of the muggy Talador air and held it for several seconds before exhaling.

“She’s due in April or May,” he said.

“So it could be yours,” said Quai.

“Mm,” he said.

“Both of you should have stayed back. This is no place for a pregnant woman – or an expectant father.”

Wellson studied the patch of dirt beneath his feet. Ants marched in long columns around a blade of grass as they carried crumbs away from the makeshift, fireside galley Emillea had erected. The quartermaster had been cooking without pause ever since he and his squad had returned with large, over-laden baskets of produce. Kestrel gestured toward her:

“Emillea’s pregnant, she’s here,” he said.

Quai nodded. “She’s also a cook – you two, not so much. When did she tell you?”

“Two days ago, after the trip south,” said Wellson. He frowned.

Quai stopped sharpening her blade. She thrust its point into the log on which she was sitting, and stretched her arms out behind her. Rays of sunlight cascaded across her face, her hair, her closed eyelids. Wellson caught himself staring. He shook his head and fixed his gaze onto Rygwyn’s tent – that poor bastard had been gravely injured a few weeks prior and was still convalescent. Gnomes did not seem particularly resilient, he thought. He wondered what that meant for Zailene’s future.

“It takes awhile for a woman to recognize that she is pregnant,” she said. “Like a couple of months. So… is it yours?”

Wellson knit his brow. He picked at the blade of grass in the dirt. The ants continued their march unabated.

“I don’t know,” he said.

VI: Swamp Castle (Wetlands). Present day.

“Just… go back,” said Lark. She straightened her posture, focussing on man across from her.

“I can’t,” said Kestrel.

“Just go back,” she pleaded.

“I can’t!” he shouted.

Osprey looked at her long-time friend. In all their years together, she had never heard him shout amidst a civil conversation.

Swan pushed her arms out. “Enough,” she commanded.

The common room falls into an unpleasant quiet. Their fire continues to crackle, just as the insects continue to buzz in the distance, and the windmill grinds the grain. Kestrel grabs his side. His breathing is labored. He coughs into the bruised crook of his arm, wet and hacking. He pulls his arm away. Strands of black saliva cling to his forearm and his lips. The saliva squishes onto Swan’s map of the Wetlands. Albatross turns away, not sure how to react.

“You don’t deserve this,” Lark cries, wiping a tear from her eye. She points at the two friends before driving her finger into the palm of her left hand. “None of you! Not … Justine, not Quai, and not you – Brian Wellson!”

Magpie places her shawl into her lap; thick needles protrude from the ball of yarn on the floor. She folds her hands atop her knitting project.

“None of us deserve this, young lady,” Magpie says. She is calm, though her voice trembles from age. “None of us deserve the life we are living. But we were not given choice in this matter, were we, dear?”

Lark’s head drops. She stares at her soft-soled, green leather boots Kestrel and Osprey had made for her; they fit perfectly. Kestrel and Osprey, they had been good to her – she could only assume that they were good to others, too.

Kestrel takes a black kerchief from his sleeve. He blots the black liquid from the map; even still, stains of necrosis remain, dotting the map as so many abandoned towns. Osprey eases her hand onto his shoulder. Kestrel flinches. Osprey does not remove her hand. Lark is crying; Albatross rises to comfort her.

“When Quai returns with the boat, we are leaving,” says Swan as she drops her hands. “Andrew can take care of this place. We can portal here if we need to. But for now, we have to leave… there is no going back from this. I’m sorry.”

Swan cracks her knuckles. She looks around the room – Lark’s shoulders are heaving beneath Albatross’s large hands, while Magpie simply nods. Swan starts toward the door.

“Their fate,” – she gestures toward a shattered Osprey and the aggrieved Kestrel – “is our fate. We swing together or we die alone.”

(( Mentioned: @justinegrotius, @juniper-rose-blower, @heyzailene, @malorincan, @monettemason, @quai-mason, @andrew-mason, @emilleasilverheart … honorary mention: @risrielthron because she is wonderful and has enabled us over the past year. ))

#Wellson #Blackbay #Lark #Quai #Venifica #Abjuration #Lord White #Eastern Kingdoms Campaign #House Aullon

[ecotone99]

[FN] The Weald, Part One: Cleric

North of the Guardian’s Road, in the High Weald, the paths are not to be wandered aimlessly. Fortunately the eastern reaches of the Weald have been extensively explored and good maps can be bought at reasonable prices in any of the larger towns which cluster around the Redwall to the East, below the steep switchbacks which lead upward to the highlands of Ferise.

While the danger here is far greater than the the Low Weald, people still inhabit the forest in great numbers harvesting crops and spices which grow faster and in greater number than anywhere else in the world, or mining the thick seams of rich ore which bubble up to the surface. It is the High Weald’s fearsome reputation which makes trade here especially lucrative - most merchants operate exclusively in the Low Weald, paying inflated prices while trying to compete with the buying power of Cerezi industry. The huge port city at the western edge of the forest holds the Low Weald in a relentless grip, dependent upon the resources of the forest to feed the hungry mouths of millions of workers and the fires of its furnaces.

No, a canny entrepreneur will seek their fortune beneath the quiet canopies of the High Weald, famous across the world as the forest of magic and monsters, children’s tales and folklore. Do not take these tales lightly, dear colleague: every fantastical tale of letches and arrax, of barbecks and narrids pale compared to the very real threat posed by the creatures which skulk in shadows cast by the trees, but the risks they pose can be largely avoided by following three simple rules.

Do not enter the Weald without a destination in mind. Do not go too deeply into the forest, remain within a day’s hard travel of its edge. Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, travel the Weald at night.

- From The Golden Road, A Merchant’s Travel Guide, Second Edition by Elber Finn.

​

The last of the rain pattered softly on distant leaves overhead, little green hands outstretched to cup raindrops shed by the retreating storm which hung, teetering, before being released from the canopy with each gust of wind, falling through the deepening shadows and splashing onto my exposed head, each droplet a pinprick which chilled in the evening air. Hollow thunder rolled long and low in the distance; while the storm had been ferocious it had at least pushed past with relative swiftness, though within that short time I had become thoroughly sodden. I made a brief effort to wring the worst of the water from my threadbare robe but quickly gave up the task as hopeless and adjusted my burden across aching shoulders, feet slowing but never stopping on the the thin, straight track cutting through the great forest that men called The Weald.

The rain had come suddenly and while there was nothing growing on the track the intensity of it had turned the ground to a smooth, slippery mulch. My iron-shod greatboots squelched in the mud with every step, protective banding around them proving more hazard than protection in these conditions as particularly soft or uneven patches of ground threatened to relieve my feet of the rest of me. Shafts of wan evening light falling through the canopy gave the forest a last chance at daylight; the clouds overhead had broken enough to let the sun give a last performance before it fell below Old Hob, the great grey mountain that crouched in the range to the West, dwarfing its brothers and sisters despite ending suddenly as if a giant had decided that two thirds of its great height was plenty and hewn off its peak, leaving a curiously flat top.

This far into the High Weald the abundant fertility that showered the forest’s farmsteaders with continual, bountiful harvest ran out of control. Tree trunks were covered in vast colourful splays of mosses and vines, some in such quantity that only the branches emerging into the forest canopy high above served as evidence that the trees they grew on even existed. Yellow, red and violet competed with green, brown and black in a mad ocean of life, striated slashes of some moss or vine covering another, and another covering the first in an endless war for supremacy which tangled the forest beyond the path in a dizzying clash of colour. Small insects and birds flitted between the tightly packed trees and drooping vines, going about whatever business such beasts pursue. Fortunately this part of the Weald did not harbour too many of the biting insects that plagued the wetlands and fens to the south, and I was largely ignored as I went on my way.

I pressed onwards, doing my best to ignore the soporific effect exerted by the High Weald, a numbness of mind and body that grew in intensity the further into the Weald one travelled. It began around a day’s travel from the edge of the forest, nothing more than a slight feeling of fogginess upon waking, quickly overcome. This far into the Weald, the effect was so strong that it tried to drag my eyelids closed at every step, consuming my focus and making my thoughts slow and sluggish. Step, step, step, my mind instructed my body, thought beyond simple action difficult to form and even harder to hold onto.

Constant and irritating though it was, the narcotic effect of the forest was not the whip that drove my weary feet forward; the sun sank and the forest was falling slowly but inexorably to night. Very shortly darkness would rule beneath the canopy of the forest, and if I had not found a place to stop and light the forest around me losing my footing would be the least of my worries. At night the strange power of the Weald waxed, and its less favourable inhabitants roamed beneath the trees.

I trudged doggedly forward, head down, hoping to come across somewhere more suitable than the centre of the track to stop and make camp, sticky mud splattering my tattered robes with every step. My robes of office had been grand things, rich and flowing and decorated with the sigils of the Bright Order in thread-of-gold: once a symbol of my ascension to the clergy, now worn more for practical purpose than any other, allowing me to pass unchallenged and unmolested through the frequent human settlements that littered the eastern limits of the Weald. No sane person would dare challenge a Cleric about his business. Of course, there were no farmsteads this far West, no more than a day’s hard march to the slow waters of the Ash River and the Ashenweald on its opposite bank.

My left foot caught momentarily in the soft earth and I stumbled slightly, my cudgel shifting in a loop on my belt, bulbous hunk of metal on a long haft. It swung and rebounded against a tortured knee sending a shock of pain up my leg. I cursed myself for allowing my mind to wander, despite my own admonitions I had allowed the spell of the Weald to take me. The cudgel continued to swing, almost unbalancing me for a moment as my boots skidded in the loose mud of the track before I could lay a hand to the haft and bring it under control. Despite the inconvenience of its bulk the weapon had served me well and I would not be without it. It was large, perhaps overly so, but I had always enjoyed its balance, allowing the momentum of the swing to carry me along with it suited both my poetic nature and fighting style. Lines of coloured glyph-runes carved into the uneven mass of the cudgel’s head seemed to ripple, whether reflecting the light around them or possessed of some inner power, I couldn't say. Pagan things of course, perhaps useful, perhaps not; but I would not have walked the Weald for nearly so many years were I unwilling to grasp every conceivable advantage.

A sharp ache began running down my spine, so I shifted Brother Azagad to a more comfortable position on my back. He was still now, head resting against the nape of my neck, arms hanging across my shoulders. I regretted the delay to my journey - I would need to spend at least another night out of doors for bringing him with me - but I would not leave him to be consumed by things unknown. I had caught up to the old Cleric among the charred ruins of a homestead two days past, a small place of little import, a half dozen houses which were probably unknown to anyone but the occasional merchant from the endless caravans that travelled into the Weald to suckle upon its wealth.

The people there had been farmers or woodsmen. Simple folk. There had been no sign of anyone but Azagad, the families there had either died in the fire or fled into the Weald. They would not return. A mindless flight into the High Weald at night was a death sentence as surely as jumping from the cliffs in the East. I had carried him since; I did not regret bringing him though I could not help feeling restless at the delay. Time was an even more pressing enemy than the strange creatures the Weald belched forth, further delay to my journey would undo me just as completely as tooth and claw, and while coming face to face with one of the Weald’s monsters was no certainty, time’s endless, insufferable progress was.

Though the light faded into deeper murk as the evening bore restlessly onwards, the splays of colour from the foliage kept their intensity, seemingly unaffected by gathering shadows. However, fauna noticed the change, small animals, birds and insects growing sparse as they sought refuge in nest, den or burrow before the true onset of night. A calm quiet fell as smarter beasts bedded down, leaving me as the only one unwise enough to be abroad so late. The beat of my greatboots hitting the earth with a clump-splash-slurp carved a hypnotic rhythm through the cool evening air, exacerbating the weariness that took my whole body and the insidious effect of the forest itself. Combining, they threatened at every step to drag me down; muscles screamed with fatigue, my eyes were gritty and tried to close. I concentrated on the pain of the Mark on my left hand to keep me focused.

It gnawed quietly, a constant pain that dimmed but never disappeared, crawling from the slashes crossing back of my hand and wrist, skin torn and ridged to either side as if the wound were from yesterday rather than decades ago. Sickly yellow light glowed dimly within the deep slashes, the light itself coalescing within the wounds of the Mark like the clotted blood of some diseased god. Quiescent for now, it was both curse and gift, both a test of fortitude and a sign of strength, bestowed upon Aspirants before their final test. Those who survived the marking and the subsequent testing were ascended to the Bright Order, branded and holy, sent forth into a world unravelling in chaos.

Unbidden, a vivid memory rose through my mind, reaching out and spreading like roots through my sluggish consciousness. So many years ago, but so real I could almost reach out and touch it. A scrawny youth, sixteen years old, stood quietly in the great chamber of Crucible’s cathedral. His posture was penitent, face fearful but determined. Thin and hard with a carefully tamed mop of brown hair, the boy’s hollow, haunted eyes gazed enraptured upon the flaming figure before him. He gave no concern to the fantastic architecture or the riches on casual display - fanciful columns, beams and domes carved by masters of their craft, gold leaf climbing walls and coating ceilings, rich tapestries of thread-of-gold, fanciful stained glass - he had eyes only for the Bound God.

Bound in service. The catechism rang in the boy’s mind, as clear as it had been during his first days as an initiate to the Order. Flames wreathing the deity’s form reflected in the boy’s dark eyes, bones black as pitch in the withering inferno, flesh burned away to nothing.

Bound in penitence. The heat from the flames was almost unbearable; the boy’s skin prickled in the dry heat, a sheen of sweat starting to form on his brow.

Bound in fire. The god’s skull was turned towards the boy, eye sockets empty black holes, its jaw locked in a constant sickly grin. A jolt ran through the skeletal form, an unseen force causing its body to shift and its head to turn fractionally, causing the empty sockets to gaze directly at the boy, meeting his eyes.

For an infinite moment the youth could see tiny points of light flashing far within the skull’s dark interior, incandescent glimmers that pierced his mind and outshone even the flames with their radiance. Momentary glimpses of wide skies and green plains overtook his mind, interspersed with visions of glittering starfields and vast, explosive expanses of rock so hot it flowed like liquid or dead and dusty ground reaching out in every direction; each vista perfectly clear for the briefest of moments before flowing past, one after the other, numerous as silver slivers of rain.

Contact broke as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the boy blinking and swaying, impressions of alien landscapes still stark in his mind. Had that been part of the test, he wondered. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, indeed, the ageing Deacon was gesturing to to him in irritation. Blinking away lingering, images, the boy hurriedly yanked up the coarse left sleeve of his robe, exposing a thin, pale arm which he now offered, shaking, to the outstretched skeletal hand of the burning god.

The hand moved suddenly and without warning, closing in a flash, bones clenching around the boy’s hand and wrist. The grip was like iron, he could not pull away with his feeble tugs. Pain blossomed through him, burning agony running up his arm and infesting every corner of his body, ripping breath from his body and sending him to his knees. The boy had only, until now, experienced physical pain: the crack of the cane, the slice of the whip, the dull ache of carrying rocks in penance; this was so much more, as if he were discovering real pain for the first time, and nothing until now had been anything but a fleeting shadow of what true agony could be. Every fibre of his being burned in terrible concert. The boy looked up at the skull through agonised tears; it seemed to laugh at him, a terrifying, blazing rictus which howled along with the flames that engulfed it. The skeletal form held the boy there for a what felt like hours, every moment burning deeper, turning first skin, then muscle and sinew, finally bone to greasy ash, scattered and disparate. The boy’s mindless cries of pain rang against the pitiless ears of the clergy, no more sympathy in their expressions than was in the ancient stone of the cathedral.

It ended suddenly, the boy’s arm was released and he sprawled bonelessly onto the cold marble floor, sheathed in sweat, cradling his shaking left hand. Already the skin blistered, red and angry, around scars which welled up with brightness as if crazed lines had been carved in the flesh by some mad butcher and filled with molten gold. The smell of burned flesh caught in the boy’s nostrils drawing lumps of hot, rancid bile up his throat.

The toe of my boot caught on a stone sticking up through the mud, sending me staggering and cursing myself. The forest was creeping into my mind, insidious tendrils growing like creepers, wrapping my consciousness in soft petals and loamy earth. I growled, the deliberate noise helping me to focus, pushing the memories of that boy back down where they belonged. I barely recognised him, shaking with fear and pain as the Mark was branded into his flesh. Too many years separated me from the boy I’d once been, weakness and fear burned away by a life in the clergy; though poor decision-making certainly still connected the two of us. A man who made good decisions would certainly not be trudging down a muddy path in the High Weald at the edge of nightfall.

I shook my head, drawing myself back to the moment and casting doubt aside. I have never been a particularly contemplative person, and this was hardly the place to start. Evening drew close, true night was coming, and the less desirable residents of the forest would soon be abroad. In the world outside the Weald mothers threatened insolent children with tales of letches and blightflies, half-believed tales which seemed beyond belief. If you don’t eat your greens then the monsters will get you. Blightflies come for naughty children who don’t stay in bed. The creatures of the Weald, considered elsewhere to be as real as faeries or pixies, were not idle threats here, letches being strong enough - and entirely willing - to tear a grown man’s arm from his torso and blightflies fond of laying eggs inside a victim’s skull with their long barbed proboscis. Families in the Weald didn’t speak such nonsense; precautions could be taken which made living in the forest safer but every year a few homesteads or farms would simply be erased overnight, stout timbers and locked doors smashed to splinters, dark blood the only evidence people had ever lived there.

I slowed on the path, looking past gaps in the forest canopy as the sun gratefully dipped its bulk down in the west, silhouetting Old Hob in a majestic corona and making it seem as if the giant flat-topped mountain were afire. Out of time. The final rays of the sun fell behind the mountain, the fiery aura faded from around the mountain, and night snapped shut like a vice. No period of twilight here; one moment the forest blazed with colour, lush with the rampant overgrowth of life, the next everything was blanketed in darkness, shadows piling upon shadows in every direction, the layers of verdant hues replaced by greys and blacks, stark and intense, marching away into the unseen distance. With light and colour the soporific haze vanished in an instant, clarity of mind returning like a flag snapping suddenly taut in high wind. I spent a moment simply standing and blinking, my mind reeling at the sudden return of faculty.

The feeling passed and I exhaled slowly. I had not experienced the transition to night this far into the High Weald in many years, and its intensity was startling. Farther from the Ashenweald the effect was far less disorienting, and at the edge of the forest almost unnoticeable. I shook my head, pulling myself together, and continued my way down the path, ever more anxious to find somewhere to stop, shoulders hunched against the towering shadows to either side of the path.

I spent the next half hour pushing forwards, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as swiftly as possible while trying to look every way at once, ears straining for the sound of any pursuit. Despite the continual prickling up my neck and an uncanny feeling of being watched, no sound reached me save the wind running gently through the undergrowth. Presently I came to a likely space, the path intersected a small clearing perhaps twenty feet across, the walls of tree and bush spreading out around a small area of short, tough grass, gaps in the canopy overhead revealing twinkling stars in the inky sky. With a sigh of relief that I could not hold in I relaxed my shoulders, preparing to unburden myself.

Rustle.

The sound brought me up sharply; it was quick and gone in an instant but noticeably different from the gentle whisper of the wind through the forest canopy. I looked about at the forest, engulfed by darkness. Pale light from an unseen moon filtered through the canopy and illuminated the small clearing and the path marching away to either side of it. The path itself, nothing but dirt and mud by day, glowed with a soft and eerie light where the moonlight touched it. I stood completely still, moving only my eyes, straining to see whether the sound came again

Rustle.

Somewhere out in the forest to my right something shifted under the vegetation, unable to dampen the noise of its passage. Try as I might, my eyes could not penetrate the murky darkness beyond the edges of the clearing; I squinted, straining my senses to try and track whatever it was but all was quiet, even the wind had died to nothing, silence now reigned in the dark forest.

I shifted the old cleric on my back again, muscles groaning in protest as I tried to find a position which gave me better mobility. I had fashioned a harness of sorts to carry him; a crude arrangement of rope which tied him to me and kept my hands free, but was supremely uncomfortable and did little to counter the encumbering weight of another human, leaving me unbalanced on my feet and at further disadvantage should the thing waiting in the forest attack.

It wants him, a traitorous thought rose up in my head, leave him here and go.

No! I thought back stubbornly. I had not carried him on my back for two days simply to leave him as a free meal for one of those cursed creatures. I still had use for Azagad.

Rustle.

The sound was closer, proximity now making it easier for me to pinpoint the location of whatever disturbed the tangled brush. The shrubs, bushes and small trees were a double-edged sword for whatever stalked me tonight; the wild foliage which massed together in a crazed tangle of branches, leaves, stalks and buds obscured my sight but made it impossible for the thing to traverse the forest without making a sound. Other places in the Weald were not like this; bare tracks of earth beneath thick, dark canopies made the hunter both soundless and almost invisible. The thick undergrowth and the track cutting through the forest at least gave me a fighting chance, able to both hear and face whatever it was, rather than have it at my back. I tried my best to relax my muscles and closed my eyes - they were useless anyway. I stood still, breathing evenly, waiting for the thing to move again.

Rustle.

Much closer. I opened my eyes and scanned across the dark brush in the direction I placed the sound, straining for any sign of movement in the melded branches… there!... A small patch moved unlike the rest of the forest; an inky blotch slightly different to the rest of the darkness. I let my vision go slightly past the patch, relaxing my eyes and unfocusing a little to make it easier to see movement in the gloom.

Rustle.

The patch shook violently and shot toward me at speed, barrelling forwards a few feet then stopping, closer but still a way short of the edge of the clearing. Its movement was deliberate, trying to gain on me before I could locate its true place in the undergrowth. Clever thing, I thought. My right hand fell to the smooth haft of my cudgel and without taking my eyes from the creature’s last position I pulled its mass free of its hoop on my belt and held it forward, letting the thing know I’d seen it in case this alone might ward it off. A gambit unlikely to succeed, but it cost me nothing and I preferred to avoid a confrontation.

As soon as I pulled my weapon free it stopped rushing and began moving forward more slowly and deliberately, its passage now clearly visible. Clearly whatever it was understood that I was wise to its presence now, so it abandoned one plan for another. I watched it creep forwards, ignoring an almost overwhelming itch between my shoulder blades which screamed at me to cast my gaze around in case this thing was one of several. Traitorous paranoia; if there was one behind me I was dead. If I looked away from this one to confirm my suspicions I was dead. I steadfastly ignored my instincts and kept my eyes locked forwards, keenly aware that my survival was dependent upon dumb luck; I found myself fervently hoping this particular creature was antisocial.

It was close now; the foliage displaced told me it was perhaps fifteen feet away, though without knowing its shape it was impossible to say for certain how close it was to being able to attack me. I made sure to keep half an eye the low bushes that surrounded the clearing; it would not do to lose a leg to an unexpected strike from below.

As it drew nearer the camouflage lent by the forest began to fail. Leaves parted to reveal a flash of segmented armour, insectoid in appearance, coloured a deep bronze and mottled with dark blotches. Undergrowth fell away for just a moment from a body, sparsely furred by short, bristly hairs, the skin only just opaque, showing glimpses of wriggling entrails and organs just beneath the surface. It stopped and settled back, the joints of six legs covered in the same white bristles as the body rising through the undergrowth, making ready to spring the thing forwards. The shape of the legs was almost like those of a huge spider, though where a spider’s legs were thin, spindly things, these were thick and bulky, rippling with dense muscles which stretched pale skin, delicate webs of veins pumping dark ichor visible through the short fuzz.

This one would most likely be called a narrid, though trying to put a creature into anything but a loose category was futile. There was no set template in any as one would find in a dog or a cow or a man. Two beasts of the same type could have different numbers of legs, different heads, or look halfway between this type and that. A letch was a letch, but how many legs did it need before it would be called an arrax? If it had wings, did that make it a blightfly? The Order’s scholars referred to the various types as analogues; stuffy words used by stuffy people that would doubtless soil themselves at the first sight of any such analogue. Sensible people didn’t quibble over such distinctions; sensible people stayed well away from anywhere such distinction might be needed. Unfortunately I have never been well known for being particularly sensible, hence standing before this particular analogue on this particular night.

The narrid - or whatever it might be - inched forward, twigs and branches cracking as it pushed itself forward, keeping its body close to the ground. So far as I could see, this was not a particularly large specimen. I’d heard tales of these things with bodies larger than horses and standing fifteen feet or more; from what I could see of this creature I estimated it would stand perhaps six or seven feet. This was fortunate, though in a relative sense, like falling down a deep hole instead of a very deep one - better by far to avoid either.

Leaves in front of me shook and parted as the narrid eased its way to the edge of the undergrowth, revealing flashes of its nightmare features. Its head was tall and narrow, like the head of an axe held vertically, covered with shiny bronze skin which was stretched so tight over its frame it seemed ready to tear. Cheeks protruded from the smooth surface, bony outcrops which turned the skin white with tautness. On each side of its head, a jet-black eye protruded in a dome, each swivelling a glowing blood-red pupil independently. Below it all, the clattering maw gnashed; huge, serrated fangs which overlapped each other, sticking out at wild angles as if two sets of teeth had been mashed together and allowed to simply grow at whatever slant they happened to take.

Scarlet pupils stopped swivelling with an ominous suddenness, and the thing affixed me with a terrible glare. The creature opened up its crazed serrated maw and roared, a high-pitched scream of fury which shook the very marrow of my bones, making my ears ring and causing the bushes around it to buck and convulse.

I stepped forward, ears all but useless from the deafening din, cudgel held aloft as I shouted defiance back at the creature. I shook my left arm free of its tattered sleeve and shoved it directly towards the thing. The Mark carved into my skin blazed with agonizing fury, casting the forest before me in sudden radiance. My arm burned as if it had been pushed through the grate of a roaring furnace; but despite the pain I hefted I held my weapon steady, allowing the rising thrill of impending violence to focus me.

The narrid backed away from the light of my Mark, eyes glittering with dark malice. Its limbs shook the foliage around it as it strafed this way and that before me, sudden bursts of movement taking it left and right, trampling the undergrowth as it sought a way around the light, teeth gnashing with frustration. It made as if to strike, but pulled back when I did not flinch. It snapped towards me, questing for flesh but finding only a short strike from the haft of my cudgel connecting briefly with its thin head, not hard enough to do damage, or indeed even hurt the thing, but warning it that I would not go quietly.

Its head darted this way and that in front of me, looking for an opening. I was steadfast, standing solidly before it and not backing down. The Mark continued to grow in both luminescence and pain as I concentrated; it felt as if nothing should be left of my arm but ash.

The creature roared again, a terrible, earth-shattering sound which made my tortured ears pop and rattled my teeth in my skull. I roared in response, a throaty bellow, throwing my agony back at this dreadful creature. You shall not have me, my roar said, I have suffered too much to end this night as your dinner.

We faced each other for a moment that stretched out and hung between us; two roars competing against each other for air, a burning brand on my arm lighting the forest in crazed hues, six legs trying to propel the narrid’s bulk forward against the will of its malicious intellect. This was its undoing, and my advantage; what is clever enough to hold malice is clever enough to know fear. This thing knew fear; it feared the Mark upon my arm as it feared the strength of my purpose.

With a final scream it retreated suddenly, rushing away like a stormwind, blowing aside bushes and small trees as it fled, roaring frustration into the night.

I let out the last of my breath, wheezing and wilting as the Mark faded, the pain receding somewhat as the light faded, and dropped my right arm to my side, suddenly aware of the weight of the cudgel. I panted, sucking cool air to calm my racing heart and cool my blood as the forest fell back into darkness.

Listening for a few moments more brought no further sound to my ears, strain as I might. It was gone. I sank to my knees and loosened the knots of the ropes tied about me, releasing then gently lowering Brother Azagad to the ground. I allowed myself a few foolhardy moments, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, panting, sweating, before pushing myself back into action. It would not do to wait here until another creature tried its luck.

I pulled off the rest of the harness and the pack which I had been carrying as well as Azagad, dropping it to the ground and scooping nearby twigs and leaves into a pile ready to ignite. The creatures of the Weald could not stand light; it was humanity’s only safeguard against being washed from the forest by a tide of teeth and claws. Fires would be blazing across the High Weald in villages or homesteads, lit at dusk and tended all night to ward away the creatures. In the Nightmire at the northern border of the Weald the canopy grew so thick overhead that the creatures might come any time in the permanent twilight. The hardy folk that made their homes there burned torches night and day as they dredged the various winding channels that crossed the land like latticework for precious metals washed down from the mountains. Only in the Ashenweald across the river did creatures roam day and night, and nobody lived there.

I sat on the ground next to Brother Azagad, unhitching my pack and searching within for my firepouch. The fat oilskin was filled with a sticky sap which would ignite if struck by a spark, whatever the weather. I smeared some of the stuff onto dry kindling I took from a bundle at the bottom of my pack - the ground of the clearing was littered with twigs but I would not go into the forest for anything larger - and struck my flint and tinder.

The fire crackled merrily into life and light sprayed into the woodland, lighting blacks and greys to greens and banishing some of the ominous feel of the Weald. As it took, I looked to Azagad. Dried blood crusted around his mouth and chin, covering his serrated teeth and making them look almost black in the flickering firelight. Looking at that ghastly maw, I felt suddenly grateful I had never gone so far as to file my own teeth while I was lost in the madness of the clergy.

I had finally found Azagad hunkered down in the burning homestead as he tore the flesh from the severed leg of a child, chewing on the raw meat, hot blood coursing down his chin and neck. And so the young sustain the old in their piety, I thought, quoting mentally from the Script of the Cleric, one of many manuals I had studied as an Acolyte, and so they shall give of themselves for the servants of the land. Clearly he had taken that particular line of scripture quite literally.

Digging a sharp knife from my pack, I pulled one of his arms straight and stuck the tip into the elbow joint, parting the sinew with a brief sawing motion before pulling the bone out from the joint with a soft pop, allowing me to separate the forearm. The corpse lay there, uncomplaining, as I cut strips of meat from the dismembered limb, hanging them to sizzle above the fire.

We had fought in that burning place, Azagad and I. Flames had coursed into the sky leaving charred timbers askew in the dirt like broken fingers. The harsh, flickering light of a dozen fires cast stark shadows as they raged untended while we set to each other with weapons and hands. Most of the woodsmen had already fled Azagad, but corpses had lain in our way, great rents and wounds still weeping where his spiked mace had stuck them. The other Cleric was old, but wily, and the madness burned strong within him; still, eventually I struck him down, pinning his left arm and crushing the Mark beneath my cudgel. I had sat on the ground for a long while when the deed was done, looking into his grey, glassy eyes as his life seeped from his veins and gathered on the ground.

Watching small beads of fat break out from the meat and fall sizzling onto the crackling wood, I considered the corpse of the old Cleric. I would eat, though the old hunger no longer burned in me; I no longer craved the flesh of men but one of my own kind would certainly sate me, if only for the satisfaction of vengeance against the Bright Order, knowing the rage the disappearance of another Cleric would cause the Archdeacon in Crucible. I imagined him incandescent in fury, throwing papers from his desk, falling to his knees and pounding the ground.

I spent the time waiting to eat in an idle daydream where I took some identifying curio from Azagad and sent it directly to the Archdeacon, taunting the old man with the loss of one of his rabid dogs. The widening of his blue eyes when he realised it was me. But no, far too risky. Anything that might tie me to a Cleric’s death was a risk I could not afford for now; tomorrow I would take Azagad’s place, guiding his Acolytes to their testing in the beating heart of the Weald. Of course, the Archdeacon would certainly hear of that, and he would know who was responsible, but by the time word reached him I would be far away.

I didn’t fight the grin pulling at the corners of my mouth.

​

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This is the first of five connected short stories I've been working on. Any feedback, critical or otherwise, greatly appreciated.

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