Archive | January 28, 2014

Addergoole – its reputation after the Faerie Apocalypse

This is… pretty much what it says. It’s thinking about students leaving Ag after the war, and what legacy that leaves.

There were three teenagers and four toddlers at the gate of the town, with a two-horse wagon drawn by the biggest horses anyone in the town had ever seen.

The guard did not fail to notice that two of the three semi-adult people were girls, nor that the two horses came with two foals alongside. Those facts alone meant the travelers were due some consideration. Then the shorter of the two women began to speak, her voice pitched to carry over the wall.

“We were trained at the Addergoole school. I am a doctor and educator; my companions are a metalworker-and-veterinarian and a linguist-and-weapons-expert.”

The man stepped up beside her and repeated this in the three most common languages for this area, while the third stayed in the background. The woman continued.

“We seek a place to set up business, and a place to shelter with our children.”

The guards had sent a runner to the Mayor the minute the woman said “Addergoole School.” As the translator was finishing up the round of languages, the mayor spoke up.

“Will you swear the oath?”

Even from the top of the wall, they could see the woman stiffen. They reached for their weapons. “What oath?”

“Swear that you seek to work with us and for us, not against us.”

“I will swear that we will offer no harm unless attacked, that we will work as members of your town.”

“A doctor, you said? And a veterinarian, and a weapons-master?” The Mayor knew, better than most, the needs of his town.


“That oath will do. Enter, then. We can find you a place to live for starters.”


The world ended in 2011. For thirty years since then, students had been leaving Addergoole.

Many of them went back to their parents, at least to start – especially those raised on the Ranch, in the Castle, in the Burrow or the Cave, Forest Manor or Cabal’s Mountain or the Eyrie. Some stayed in the Village for a year, for a few years, until their children were grown. A few went to work for the school, or for one of the affiliated groups.

But many – almost all, in the long run – went out into the world, looking to make a place for themselves. They traveled on foot, on wing, in cars and wagons, on horseback, by teleportation, however they could make it, until they found a town that looked suitable, for whatever definition of “suitable” they were using.

And, eventually, it would come out – not from all, not even from most, but from enough of them – where they’d gotten the wagon, the horse, the training, the children. Addergoole.



The name meant trouble, sometimes – teenagers with more power than sense, angry kids, scared kids, hungry kids – and the towns had learned to beware, and to ask for assurances. But, often enough that they were not entirely turned off of the name, it meant help. Medical training. Book training. Mechanical training.

“It’s a school,” their benefactors would hedge. “My parents went there.”

And so, thirty years after the apocalypse, the name Addergoole elicited envy and bitterness, fear and gratitude, and more than a bit of confusion.

This entry was originally posted at You can comment here or there.

Closing Up

This is to Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt to this bonus-round call to the [community profile] dailyprompt prompt “the end of an era.

The sign out front said “Closing! Everything Must Go!” It brought people in like nothing else ever did.

Vultures, Tama thought, but, like vultures, they served a purpose. They picked the last otherwise-useless things off the bones, for one, leaving a nice, tidy skeleton. Nature’s disposal system.

“Excuse me? Excuse me, miss, this Hunnel statue. It’s a fake, you know, right?”

“I sell curios and curiosities, trinkets and treasures.” It was late in the evening, and Tama’s spiel was sounding rough around the edges. “I do not verify anything.”

“It’s just that this price…”

“Everything in the store is seventy-five percent off. That little statue is…” She peered at the ancient tag. Miss or not, the light was low and the day was old. “Five-fifty.”

“But twenty-two dollars is too much for a fake Hunnel, miss.”

Tama let her accent thicken. “Is not twenty-two dollars. It is five-fifty.” She flapped a hand around the store. “Everything is seventy-five percent off. Five-fifty.”

The woman held up the statue woefully. “It’s the last thing left in the store, except the table it was sitting on. And twenty-two is too much.”

“Sell it for eleven on e-bay.” Tama had bargained and argued and fussed all week. Now, she was ready to be done. “Statue and the little table, ten seventy-five.”

The table, unlike the Hunnel, was a genuine antique. The woman salivated. “Nine.”


“That’s not how you’re supposed to do that!”


“Okay, okay, here.” The woman counted out eleven dollars. “There.” She paused, as if the act of buying had broken some spell on her. Maybe it had. “This store has been here as long as I can remember. What will you do, now that it’s gone?”

Tama looked around the empty store. Bones, now, picked clean. “I’ll move on.”

“It’s like it’s the end of an era.”

She closed the cash register on the last eleven dollars. “It is. And now I can start a new one.”

She locked the door behind her last customer, her last customer ever. The end of an era, indeed. With that outworld Hunnel (and the sapient pearwood table) safely out of her hands, she could move on, see the worlds. Do something with her life.

She thought, this time, she’d try to travel light.

This entry was originally posted at You can comment here or there.

The Collar Job, Part I

This is … what happens when you let me watch an entire season of Leverage in a week and a half. *cough* Tír na Cali/Leverage fanfiction crossover.

It’s written in an experimental style for me, and, well, it’s fanfic, so pls. be kind.

“Hardison, no!

Alec Hardison levels a gun at a pretty redhead; her eyes narrow. Behind Hardison, Eliot shouts out. A glint of gold can be seen around his neck.

The redhead moves.

Three weeks earlier

“And that’s when she left me.” The man has been crying into his whiskey for an hour, while Eliot keeps the drinks coming and pretended to be interested. “And she took the Molier.”

This is the piece of information that they’ve been waiting for. “Damn, man.” Eliot shakes his head in sympathy. “Damn, that’s hard.”

The drunk is patting his pockets. “Got a light?”

“Yeah, but you can’t smoke in here. Come on, I’ll join you.” He tilts his head towards the back porch.

They step out onto the porch, the only ones out there. It’s a Tuesday night, and the bar was nearly empty to begin with; a few nudges cleared it out. There’s nobody to interfere with –

Eliot never sees who hits him with the tranq dart. The dart lands; he shoves the mark out of the way. “Nate?” He pulls the dart out. “Nate, I’m hit. I’m…”

Not even an elephant tranq should be that fast-acting. He goes down on top of the mark, swearing into the com.

Location: Deep in Tír na Cali.
Time: Four days later

“Now remember to behave until I hand you over.” The woman was gorgeous – red hair like a flame, body sleek like an athlete, dressed like a businesswoman. Her eyes are pale, her smile painted-on, and her nails are very sharp, which Eliot has had cause to learn, if the lines across his face are any indication.

He is wearing, in addition to her claw-marks, a very thick metal collar, shackles just as thick, and thin pants that don’t suit him.

“Behave.” He snarls it, half an agreement, half a question, but does not move. The redhead still tut-tuts at him.

“I did say behave.” She pushes a button waiting in her hand. A buzzing zzap fills the air, brief but loud. Eliot clenches his jaw, refusing to shudder.

Cut to commercial.

Part Two (and on LJ)
Part III (and on LJ)

This entry was originally posted at You can comment here or there.

Friends Do, a story of Dragons Next Door for OrigFic Bingo

To kelkyag‘s prompt to my January card for [community profile] origfic_bingo.

This fills the “friendship” square.

It comes after Hands-on Knowledge.

Jin leaned against the bleachers in gym class, and listened to his human friends fail to understand.

“You introduced her to your folks, right? You did the whole prom thing, you’ve gone on dates… you’ve got all the hard stuff out of the way.” Toby had been with his girlfriend, Vanessa, for over a year; he at least thought he knew what he was talking about.

“Until Valentine’s Day.” Geordi had gone through seven girlfriends in six months. “Or her birthday. Or, god forbid, Christmas. But it’s April. You’re golden, unless her birthday’s in May.”

“Seriously.” Toby caught a ball tossed their way – they were supposed to be playing dodge-ball – and shook his head at Jin. “Unless this is oogy boogy stuff?”

“Oogy boogy!” Geordi wriggled his fingers in what he clearly thought was a classic “magic happens” gesture.

“Yes.” Jin sighed. “It’s oogy boogy stuff.”

“Is she…” Toby mimicked Geordi’s gesture.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t have brought her home so soon otherwise.”

“Racist parents, hunh? I know how that can be.” Toby shrugged. “So she’s a… damnit.” It was as if, having played the ‘racism’ card, he felt like he had to be correct himself. “She’s a dweomer, then? So it’s not like you have to keep the magic stuff hidden from her. Can you do that, in your house? I mean, we’ve been there, man…”

“Exactly. You’ve been there. Which means, you know who my neighbors are.”

“What, the pixies?”

“No, they’re not quite neighbors…“ Jin shrugged. “Besides, she’s already met them.”

His friends – even his human friends – weren’t stupid. “Woah. You mean the dragons. You haven’t introduced her to Jimmy yet?”

“No.” He hunched his shoulders forward. “I haven’t. When a dragon doesn’t like someone…”

“He’s your best friend, man. I mean… we’re your friends. He’s your literal wingman.” Geordi patted Jin’s back. “She makes you happy, right?”

“Yeah?” Yeah. More than anything.

“Then Jimmy will be fine. But you gotta tell him.”

Jin swallowed. It wasn’t nearly that simple, but… “Right. Right, okay. If you see charred remains…”

“We’ll make sure all the girls cry at your funeral, yep. But it won’t be like that.” Toby punched his arm. “Go. Talk to him. That’s what friends do.”

This entry was originally posted at You can comment here or there.