Blink and You will Miss Her

Blink is a relatively recent creation. I touched on her origins in my blog about dreams a few days ago, and this should build on that theme just a little bit before I post the first part of her story. Last year I had a dream about a girl who came from another world. I don’t remember much, but the basic idea stuck with me and eventually became the character Blink. I remember two things from the dream, that she could teleport and that her name came from the phrase “Blink and you will miss her.”

Blink stared up at the sky in confusion. The city she knew was gone, replaced by a city of towering stone and thick smoke that blotted out thick swaths of nighttime stars. Strange rumbles filled the air, blending with the sound of people laughing and talking all around her. The windows were lit with a steady light, brighter than the torches and lanterns that the half-elven girl remembered. She was still wearing the strange garb of the reapers and could feel the dark chill of their hands. Her gear and weapons were gone, though one of their long, single edged blades rested on the stone beside her. The severed arm of its owner still dripped blood next to it. Her head ached abominably and she screwed her eyes shut, pressing her scraped palms to her temples as she pulled the leather and metal of the reaper hood low over her eyes. The headache faded and she lay still for several long minutes before she realized that she could still see, as clearly as day, in spite the eyeless mask and the growing night.

The girl noticed two things at nearly the same time. First, there was only one moon in the sky. Luna, the home of the celestials, was gone. Second, there was a window looking out on her ledge and a man was staring at her, his face frozen in shock. She started to rise, but the ill fitted mask slipped from her head and the headache returned with such force that she collapsed, falling away into comfortable darkness.

When she opened her eyes again, the mask was firmly over her eyes, blocking out the agonizing pain. She was in a small room on a wide, cushioned couch near a fireplace. The man she had seen watching from the window sat nearby, a strange look on his bearded face.

“I saw you in my dreams…” he said softly, his voice gentle and melodious. “You were being attacked… and then I woke up and you were outside.”

Blink tried to speak, but her voice was hoarse and raw. “Reapers… where are they?”

The man stood quickly, pressing her back down on the couch as she tried to rise. “Lie still,” he said gently. “I don’t know what reapers are, but there aren’t any here. Let me get you some water.”

He vanished and Blink lay still, looking blankly around the room as she tried to remember what had happened. The oddities in the room distracted her however, and the hazy memories continued to elude her. The fireplace held no wood, instead it was a simple metal grate with blue and orange flames rising from holes in a short metal tube. There were lamps on the walls spouting the same fire, though Blink couldn’t see the oil reservoirs. Candles, the only truly familiar light sources, lined a desk that was littered with parchment and scrolls. Leatherbound tomes filled shelves on either side of the desk and strange fireplace. She heard a lever crank, followed by the sound of running water. The stranger reappeared with a cup.

“Easy,” he said as he helped her to sip the cool liquid. “Easy… take it slow.”

“Where am I?” she asked. “Wh… who are you?”

Meet Melody

I’m doing something a little unusual. I’ve mentioned my new characters, Melody and Barnabus, the main characters of my latest story. I’m actually taking a break in their main story to write a short piece about Melody’s origin. I’m not quite finished with it yet, but I’ll post the first part anyway.

Melody MacTyre woke up alone in the snow, amid a ruin of fallen and broken trees. Her head was swimming and her throat ached horribly, as if she hadn’t had a drink in days. She stared at the sky in confusion, unaffected by the brightness of the sun as she looked past it into the countless stars.

“Move,” said a voice in her head, a voice not quite her own. “Get up!”

“I can’t,” she mumbled, her words feeling like fire in her neck. She looked down without moving her head, peering stupidly at the great limb pinning her legs to the ground. “I’m stuck….”

“Move the branch!” growled the voice.

Her leg moved, an involuntary jerk that sent the heavy branch tumbling away in a spray of powdery snow. Melody’s eyes widened and she stood up, looking down at her torn and dirty breeches in awe. The pain in her throat temporarily forgotten, she reached down to grab a length of broken oak that would have taken ten men to move. With barely a thought, she flicked her wrist and sent the log soaring away into the forest.

She swore softly, nearly falling back into the snow.

“Well done,” said the voice. “Told you!”

“What’s going on?” Melody asked as the burning in her throat returned. “Wh… what’s happening to me?”

“Us,” corrected the voice. “I’m you… at least your new memories.”

Melody’s head spun and she staggered away, her movements as quick as the wind. She came up hard against an unyielding outcrop of stone, shattering the rock with her shoulder.

“Watch it!” cried the voice. “Take it easy! Act a little more like a human or we’ll never blend in!”

In the War of Light and Shadow: Part 2

I had a headache when I posted this last time, so I didn’t really give any inside info on it before. I actually wrote this on my commutes between my house and New York City. It helped me take my mind off of the crowds and the noise.

“I… I can’t,” stammered the knight. “You’re a Deathknight… you, you’re one of them!”

“A Deathknight that is fighting on your side!” snapped the elf, losing his patience. “Leave the chains if you must but let me save the city!” His eyes flashed with a cold blue light and he raised his commandeered blade. “Or would you like to try to kill me instead?”

With his strength and stature restored, Aravos stood on a level with the knight. Even chained, the Deathknight was an imposing figure, with his silvery skin etched with softly glowing runes. The soldier swallowed nervously, eyeing the long sword in Aravos’ powerful hands.

“Here,” he said shakily, digging a ring of keys from one of his pouches. “What do we do now?”

Aravos let the chains fall to the ground and rubbed his raw wrists. “The hordes are lead by greater undead, Deathknights, liches, vampires… we need to find whatever is holding this together and kill it.”

“Where?” panted the knight, following Aravos as he jogged away. “Where is it? How do we find it?”

Aravos hesitated at a crossroads, disoriented from his long imprisonment. “If we get close enough, I should be able to sense it.” His jaw tightened. “Without my own blade and armor my magic is weak. If the undead take my mind again, you need to take off my head, understand?”

He pierced the soldier with his strange blue eyes. “Understand?”

“Yes,” said the knight. “How will I know?”

Aravos gave a half-hearted chuckle. “When I stop killing the dead and start trying to kill you.”

To their relief the gates were intact, though skeletal warriors swarmed the ground outside, some raising crude ladders while others clawed their way up to the ramparts. The throwers had stopped, though the damage was already done. Aravos could hear the screams and sounds of fighting as more of the flesh golems stalked the streets, adding to the rampant chaos. The sun had long since vanished, overcome by thick black clouds. Thunder rumbled as the knight and the Deathknight fought shoulder to shoulder, sweeping shambling zombies and ravening ghouls from off the battlements. Aravos fought carefully, conserving the magic of his crude runeblade as much as he could.

The undead had overcome many of the knights manning this section of the wall. The few that remained were trapped near the guard tower, hemmed in by dozens of moaning corpses. Zombies turned on Aravos without fear only to fall beneath his blade. The men at the guardhouse watched in awe as the small swarm disintegrated.

“Hold this wall!” thundered the Deathknight, barely slowing as he shoved through the door to the guardhouse and across the deserted room to the far door.

The center of the wall was little better, though he could see clusters of knights gathered around shining paladins. The mighty champions fought with unequaled fury, fueled by the light and a deep hatred for the undead. It seemed, though the monsters roved the walltop, that nothing could stand against the holy men and women of the Church of Light. A cold feeling pierced Aravos’ heart and he hesitated.

The knight stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“A lich,” Aravos replied, pressing his thumb against his blade, wincing as it bit his calloused flesh. The knight watched in concern as he drew a series of crude, bloody runes on the wide blade.

“Lich?” the man asked. “Aren’t liches wizards?”

“Most of them were wizards once,” Aravos said grimly. “Men who turned to undeath to extend their lives and their research. Their magic is strong… stronger than mine.”

“How do we stop them?” asked the knight.

“They are creatures of ice,” replied the Deathknight. The runes on his skin and sword flickered and bluish fire lined his blade. “We need to use fire… it will weaken it enough to kill it.”

The knight spun around and ducked into the guardroom before returning with a brand from the fire. Aravos nodded approvingly. “Good. Now let’s go!”

Almost at that instant, something appeared at the walltop beside the nearest paladin. A tall figure, ghostly and shining with a pale light hovered over the battlements, its translucent robes fluttering in a non existent wind. Only its skull seemed solid, staring down at the champion with red lights that shone from empty eye sockets. Several smaller spirits, lesser ghosts, flanked the lich, striking at the knights with spectral swords. The blades drew no blood, but more than one soldier fell, stricken by the horrible chill.

Aravos swore. “Knight, do you wear a holy symbol?”

The man nodded and pulled a pendant from under his breastplate. “This.”

“Good enough,” said the Deathknight. “Wrap the chain around your hilt and repeat after me.”

When he said the once familiar prayer, the words caught in his throat. For a moment he felt sick, but gathered his strength, barely skipping a beat as he forced the incantation through clenched teeth. The knight followed quickly, stumbling over a handful of the larger words. Aravos grunted, glancing back at the lich and the paladin.

“That will have to do,” he said. “A consecrated blade will drive the ghosts away. Try to keep up!”