N for Notice

For eseme‘s prompt, along with quite a few others.

The Department of Never had left a Notice on Neil’s door.

He ignored it the first day, tired from work and grocery shopping, foot-sore and soul-tired. The second day, there was a a second Notice stapled above the first.

His eyes glossed over it, found it pink, and ignored it again.

The notice the next day was a slightly darker shade of rose, with larger letters. Neil had a late-night poker game with his friends, and ignored it. If the Department, the Nonesuch, the Agency of No really wanted to talk to him, they could come in and talk to him like normal people (not that they were normal. Not that, if rumor were true, they were people at all).

The days passed. Neil had a busy work-life and almost as busy a home-life (not that it happened at home. Usually; his home-life happened at other people’s homes, in their man-caves, in their dens. Or in bars, including the Nevermore and the North Pole, and quiet seedy clubs)); he ignored quite a bit, not just the Notices from Never but the menus from Number One Chinese and Mark’s Pizzeria, the angry notes from his landlord about why he never attended the floor events, and, sometimes, phone calls from his mother.

(Bills were paid automatically, so that he didn’t ignore those).

On the ninth day, the Notice on his door was red, and Neil finally read it.

FINAL NOTICE

For a moment, he thought that was all it said. He squinted at the letters, black on bright red text.

The Non-Division wishes to inform you that there has been a change in the scheduling of this sector, 9-5-9-8, subsector 9. As of the Ninth of November, Yr 99, we are cancelling nighttime.

Neil looked at his watch, which told him the day was the eight of November. He looked at his scheduler, which told him that he had plans for the next nine nights, most of which were, to put it succinctly, night-life sorts of plans.

He sat down in front of his door. “No. No.”

The Department found him there when the sun rose for the last time, still nattering on, no, no, no.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/518063.html. You can comment here or there.

L is for Llama Lawyers

Apr22

To inventrix‘s prompt. With more than a little nod to
Gregory Maguire’s Wicked series, which I have been reading.

The court-yard was turning quickly into a barn-yard.

It was intended to allow for Animals, of course; that was why it was outdoors. But it had been intended, by the worthies who had designed it, that there would be, perhaps, an Animal plaintiff or defendant, in a court otherwise composed of Humans of one ilk or another.

Not… this.

Judge Dernbian Occut stared at the court-yard. Stared, and then closed his eyes, which did not help, because he could still hear and smell the whole thing quite well, thank you very much. There was a bleating over there, and a complaining over there, and one rather young and incontinent Sheep had lost itself all over the pavers.

And the lawyer. The lawyer for the Prosecution – and all of its clients – were Llamas. At least, Judge Occut hoped they were Llamas. He had only, so far, heard bleating.

He banged his gavel and glared at his bailiff, who should have known better and, somehow, made this go away before it happened. “This court will come to order.”

The Bailiff, who was nominally Human but had, Judge Occut was sure, Bulldog blood in the lines somewhere, barked out at the crowd. “Silence! Silence! The Court of the Honorable Judge Dernbian FitzeGondalf Occut is now in session! Sit down if you’ve got it. Stand quiet if you don’t!”

A moment, a blessed moment of silence. Then the attorney for the defense wheedled forward. “Forthright Estiman, your Honor.”

“I know you.” The sleaziest sort of barrister, Forthright Estiman.

“I move that the charges against my client be dismissed. After all, the plaintiff, your Honor, is a Llama.”

The Llama stepped forward, and bowed, deeply, and very impressively. “If we could bring the Court’s attention to the case of Morinda v. Werwin, or the case of Lucy the Red v. the Sheep Satire, there is more than sufficient precedent for an Animal bringing suit. And as we are bringing a financial suit against one Kaber Bennidict, who has been more than willing to take Animal gold, I cannot see why he would suddenly think that an Animal is not worthy of his presence.” The Llama nodded toward the defendant’s seat, noticeably empty. “The charge is fraud and corruption, your Honor. Surely the esteemed Sir Bennedict could bring himself forward for that charge?”

Judge Occut cleared his throat, rather than sighing visibly. “Motion to dismiss denied. Forthright, you have ten minutes to produce your client, or I’ll pen you both up in contempt of court.”

It was the first time the Judge had found himself in sympathy with an Animal, but, then again, Forthright always could sway your sympathies against him.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/516485.html. You can comment here or there.

G is for Great Deals!

Apr17

To cluudle‘s prompt

“I’ve just has some prime beachfront property open up. I’ve got a quaint one-bedroom bungalow on a cozy property that faces on the ocean…” Gilly had been one of the best realtors in the business. She could sell anything to anyone and had, at one point or another, sold everything.

That was Before.

“It’s in Tuscon. Hello? Hello? Damnit.” Gilly hung up and dialed the next number. “Sarah! Hi. I’ve got an adorable little beach front place down in Tuscon… Damnit.”

By six p.m., Gilly was just about to throw in the towel. It wasn’t her fault that it was the oldest scam in the book. It wasn’t her fault the ocean had devoured Central America. It wasn’t her fault she was stuck trying to sell… yes… oceanfront property in Arizona.

“And if you’ll buy that,” she finally added in desperation, “I’ll throw the Golden Gate in free.”

if you’ll buy that.

[Chorus:]
I got some ocean front property in Arizona.
From my front porch you can see the sea.

Ocean Front Property, George Strait

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/513405.html. You can comment here or there.

F is for Friend Fiend Forgetting

Apr16

To imaginaryfiend‘s prompt

“Noornian. You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Know.” The fiendling ducked its head. “Know. Forgot. Sorry.”

Janet had been almost eight before she’d figured out that other peoples “Imaginary friends” hadn’t been twee mispronunciations of what hers was – an fiend powered on imagination. By then, it had been too late, and the whole school knew that Janet had an “Imaginary demon friend.”

Which was fine, really, except that, unlike (most) of the other students’ imaginary friends, Noornian was visible to other people. Not all the time, no, but when it forgot to cloak itself…

…well, then the more observant of Janet’s classmates would see her with a “dragonet” or a “little shoulder demon” or a “lizard of some sort” draped around her shoulders, where Noornian spent most of its time. And then the teachers would get upset, either with the students, or with Janet, or, in a few specific cases, the teachers.

Mrs. Contori had held Janet after class. Again. To scold her demon.

“Noornian, are you sure you ‘forgot?'”

“Forgot!” The fiendling waved both front paws in an urgent gesture. “Noornian good. Friendly. Forgot. Wanted to say hello to cute fire-haired boy.”

Cute fire-haired boy. Janet felt her own cheeks burning. She spoke up before Mrs. Contori could. “Noornian, it doesn’t sound like you forgot. And you know what I told you would happen if you dropped your cloak on purpose again…”

“Forgot! Forgot! Noornian will be good and not forget again!” The fiendling was flailing with four limbs now. “Only – maybe can meet fire-hair boy?”

Damnit. Janet stole a glance at Mrs. Contori, to find that the math teacher was smiling. “Janet, I think if you invited Justin home to study with you, he might be amenable to meeting your fiendling. You know,” her smile was conspiratorial, and she reached up to her shoulder to pat her own fiendling, “because it is good to keep our shoulder-demons happy. Lest they ‘forget’ more important rules.'”

“Noornian forget.” Sounding entirely smug and pleased with itself, the fiendling settled down on Janet’s shoulders to groom itself.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512106.html. You can comment here or there.

E is for Euphoric

Apr16

For Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt.

“What did you do, Eustace?”

“Why does it have to be my fault?” Said at-fault fella stepped back, hands raised, trying to look innocent. He wasn’t very good at it. It was the thought that counted, right?

“Because there are two of us who live in this apartment.” Emily clearly wasn’t counting thoughts. “And I know I didn’t do it.”

“Maybe it’s a burglar?” He tilted his head towards the couch, and the mess all around the coffee table.

“A burglar that, what, came with a key?” Emily, in turn, tilted her head towards the locked and deadbolted door, the windows with their security grates, the view indicating that, as they had been yesterday, they were still on the twenty-ninth floor. “Or flew?” She looked down at their unwanted guest. “Well, I could believe flew, if the windows were open.”

“See? See?” Eustace flailed with both hands. “See? It could entirely have been not my fault.”

“Eustace. There is a stoned elf on our couch.”

“Euphoric. It’s not stoned, it’s on euphorics.”

“Why are you calling it it?”

“Have you looked under its fur?”

“….no?” Emily wasn’t quite that curious. “Besides, since when do elves have fur?”

“Since when do elves ride the Metro? I’m not entirely sure it’s an elf. You can get the ears tipped by any good cosmetic surgeon.”

“And what about under its fur?”

“Well, I can’t think of a surgeon that would do that, but maybe an angry girlfriend. But I think that explains the euphorics.”

“…Eustace. You’re saying that the euphoric elf on our couch is… a eunuch?”

“Exactly.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/511698.html. You can comment here or there.

A is for Alpha

Apr15

For an Anonymous prompt: A is for Alpha

My Giraffe Call is open! Leave an alphabetical prompt!
.
It all began with the first of us, called, as was appropriate and due, the Alpha.

I never knew what other name the Alpha might have held, before this place, before Everything Else. But sometimes we called her Anna, or Angie, when we were being informal.

There were not all that many minutes in which we were being informal, truth be told. The formality was something to lean upon, something to prop us up. And we needed all the props we could get, then.

But I was saying. Alpha came first. That much I was told: Alpha, and then Beta, of course, who we called Bill in those rare informal moments, and then Gamma (Gail) and then me. Delta, fourth-arrived, fourth-in-line, and sometimes Dean.

“It was more relaxed, when it was just the two of us.” I never knew if Beta was complaining or explaining when he said that. I did know that, as we went from the four of us to the whole alphabet, twenty-four of us with Omega playing last-in-line, everything got more and more formalized.

Our sanctuary was none too large – a half-sunk building in what had once been a park, surrounded by the wildlife and the monsters – and twenty-four people filled it to capacity and stretched our food supplies even more than it stretched our space. “We’ll stop there,” Alpha said. “One for every letter. It only seems fair.”

We all knew it wasn’t really going to work that way – well, I can’t speak for the first three, but I knew it, and Theta and Iota knew it, and they were the ones I spent the most time talking to. But Alpha, Beta, and Gamma seemed insistent on sticking to it. They even sent away the first two or three people to show up after that.

That’s when the rumbling began – no. That’s when the rumbling got audible. I think the rumbling had begun the minute Alpha said “I was here first, and I’m in charge.”

But now our alphabet starts at Delta, and we’re building a new wing onto the building, and we’ve started giving people Arabic letters.

There can’t be that many survivors left in the world. We shouldn’t run out of letters again, I don’t think.

And if we do, we can start again at Alpha.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/510157.html. You can comment here or there.

Questioned, a story for the Giraffe Call (@Inventrix)

Apr9

For inventrix‘s prompt.

Mikary had heard the calling so loudly she had thought, for a moment, she was going deaf.

She had taken that calling and hitched her wagon to it, packed her whole life into two packs and gone questing.

“Why now?” her mother moaned. “The lovely boy down the street was just beginning to look at you properly.”

“Why there?” her father frowned. “There’s dangers on the road you can’t imagine, and monsters in the woods.”

“Why Andrung?” Everyone wanted to know that. “Why the Missing god, the lost god, the failed god?”

“Why Paladin?” The boy down the street was as lovely as Mikary’s mother said. “Why god-touched, why pure, why would you go adventuring at all?”

Mikary had no answers for them, so she gave none. The voice of Andrung was loud in her head, so loud she could barely hear the questions anyway. She packed up what few possessions she had, and she walked.

“Why now?” Villagers could see the godhead about her, and that was enough for them to give her sustenance and shelter, to ask her for blessings and prayers. It was enough for them to ask questions. “The roads will be wet with mud and thick with brigands, now.”

“Why there?” The other Paladins she passed were generally polite enough not to sneer at her choice of faith, but her choice of locations, on the other hand… “That forest has been blasted and useless for generations.’

“Why Andrung?” Even the Paladins asked that eventually. “Why the god that left, the god that does nothing, the god with no light?”

Mikary had no answers for them, so she gave none. She gave blessings – Andrung had no light, but there was warmth aplenty. Andrung may do nothing, but the gift of the god allowed Mikary to do plenty.

On the road, at least, nobody asked “Why Paladin.”

“Why now?” The forest was dark, and the voice of the god had left her head. The only voice was the traveler in front of her – tall, taller than the tallest man in Mikary’s village, and nearly as broad as the road. “Why do you travel now, when the farms need tending?”

“Why here?” His companion stepped from the forest. Only half as tall as the first one, he was twice as wide. “Why come to the depth of the world, where the monsters live”?

“Why a paladin of Andrung?” This one was a shadow on the other side of the road, with a voice like a granny. “Why the god the world bypassed? Why the god who was thrown off?”

For them, Mikary found she had answers.

“I come now because I was called. The roads are muddy, the crops need tending, and the man back home will have found another girl when I return. But now is when Andrung called me.

“And here is where he called. I answer the voice of my god, to the forest dark and blasted and perhaps full of monsters, because the god called me here. Where else would I walk?

“And who else would I choose? Andrung chose me, when naught else would satisfy. The forsaken god, the forsworn god, perhaps, but I come here, I came now, I came for Andrung. Because Andrung called me.”

“Then come to your god.” The three spoke as one, and Mikary understood, finally, why she had come.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/507478.html. You can comment here or there.

Veils, a story of the Giraffe Call for @Rix_Scaedu

Apr5

To Rix’s prompt: http://aldersprig.livejournal.com/630713.html?thread=3925689#t3925689

“Why are we doing this?” Drakur tugged at the thin veils and whispy pants. “You’d look better in this than I would.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” Dortha was a stout woman, an earth-witch and a tree-wife, the strongest Drakur had ever met. She was handsome, but not lovely, not in the way that people at the auction would drool over.

Drakur. Drakur was. He looked down at himself. “Okay. I look okay, I guess.” He wasn’t big and bulky like some swords-slingers (or like some farmboys) were. He was just… skinny and rock-hard. And apparently looked really believable as a harem slave.

“You look delicious. I’d buy you myself.”

“Now just remember, the point is to not let me get bought by anyone. We just want to get in there, not to have me go off with some frighting old crone.”

“I can remember a plan. Especially one I thought up.”

“Just see that we stick to it.”

“Thirty-five gold, do I hear forty? Forty gold, do I hear forty-five? Forty five, do I hear fifty? Forty five, going once, going twice SOLD to the woods-witch. Come get him, lady, he’s a sharp one, isn’t he? Look at that chest, look how it shines, you’re going to have fun with him, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes I am.” Dortha grabbed the leash wrapped around Drakur’s neck. “Come on, boy.“

“What happened to the plan?” He hissed it out of the side of his mouth as he stumbled along. Dortha was a double handspan shorter than he was, and she was pulling down on the leash.

“The plan succeeded. We got what we needed.”

“Then let me go!”

“Oh, no, I spent forty-five gold on you. I’m going to have fuuun.

“…shit.”

“You do look really good in the veils.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/507302.html. You can comment here or there.

The Toll

Mar31

To @RealBrigang’s Prompt
There was only one road through the Black Forest, and the Forest, standing between a cliff an a desolation, was the only route between Rondval and Alathaca, the two biggest cities in the West.

Of course, someone had gotten the clever idea to set up a toll booth across the road in the middle of the Forest.

And of course Lute and the Riders needed to get to Alathaca.

“All right. You know the drill.”

“Let you do the talking. If we have something to provide, step forward and wait to be acknowledged.” Mariam’s tone was bored irritated. Lute didn’t mind. She would do what was needed.

“That. Everyone else?”

“Got it.” Tom and Robin chorused. Torvan, of course, said nothing.

The toll booth was a stone house, arching over the road into the forest on both sides, leaving a narrow tunnel just wide enough for a wagon; the tunnel, in turn, was blocked with three heavy gates. There was no rushing this toll bar.

Lute rode to the gate and pulled the bell-cord. Travelers from Alathaca had told them this was how it worked: You rang the bell, you paid your toll, you went through and didn’t look back.

But nobody had told them what the toll was. Nobody was willing to answer that simple question.

“How many in your party?” The voice was bored-sounding and disembodied.

“Five sentient beings and five horses. What is the toll?”

“All will pass through the tunnel.”

“What is the toll?”

“All will pass through the tunnel.”

“Damnit!”

The voice laughed. “Or all will stay.”

They really had to get to Alathaca.

“We’ll go through.”

“Yes, you will.” The body laughed again. “And I will take my fee.”

The gate opened and Lute rode in, followed quickly by the Riders. They really had to get to Alathaca. Preferably before the constable of Rondval noticed they were gone

“So what’s the fee?” The gate ahead of them hadn’t opened yet and the gate behind them was swinging closed. There wasn’t enough room to turn their horses, barely enough room to move.

“Ten years.”

“Ten, what?” For a moment, Lute thought they’d ridden into a constable’s trap. And then everything began vanishing from around them.

“Ten years. There are five of you. You will serve two years each”

“Serve!” There was no way out. Lute looked around him, but even the nothingness vanished.

“Have no fear. You will return to the same time as you left. But you will serve.”

Mocking laughter chased the into unconsciousness.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/502539.html. You can comment here or there.

The Tower Needs, a story for the Giraffe call

Mar31

To thnidu‘s prompt

“Kishiara, the Tower needs men right now.” The Elder was reduced to pleading. Then again, Kishiara was his last option. “You know that.”

“I don’t see why.” The Elder had chosen to talk to Kishiara during combat training; she didn’t take her eyes off her students as she fended off lightning bolts. “The sorceresses are doing fine.”

“Simple biology dictates that we need men as well.”

“Ugh. Can’t someone else do it?”

“Nobody else was… available.” Willing, he meant. Kishiara hissed.

“So it’s me by process of elimination.”

“Or the temple will only last another ten or fifteen years.”

“But I like – stop that, Jegan – like being me.”

“I know. And I apologize. But we all have to sacrifice something for the Temple.”

Kishiara couldn’t argue with that. They all knew what the Elder had sacrificed, decades ago when the need had been different. “Fine. Let me finish this class first.”

The Elder had not expected fast acquiescence. “So soon?”

“If not now, Elder, you will find my mind changed. Now… let me finish this?”

The Elder left, to prepare the ritual. They all had sacrifices to make. He reminded himself of that again and again. The tower would not live without men, and Kishiara was the only one who could provide them with men.

She went into the ritual pool naked, willing, her head held high although her hair had been shaven off as part of the preparation. In order to succeed, the ritual’s notes said, leave as much self as possible outside the pool.

Kishiara’s head went under the water. In due time – an hour that seemed an eternity – seven male heads emerged. The Tower had its sorcerers.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/502265.html. You can comment here or there.

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