At a Local Inn

Coals whizzed out of the fireplace in orange arcs, pattering with sharp hisses around the room.

                “That’s cheating!” Vanka wailed and dove behind an overturned table.

                “That’s magic, my dear.” I fell back against the wall for a breath. “What would you do with thirty golden varnums anyway? Gamble it away?”

                Vanka let out a guttural shriek. A dagger buried itself in the wooden beam inches from my head. It was my turn to dive for cover.

                The golem was crouched at the edge of the room, draped in chains, watching us with baleful eyes.

                The inn had been a lively, cheerful place when we’d arrive as the sun set, first Vanka and the prisoner, me close behind. When she’d seen me, cursing turned to threats and threats to shoving, mostly on Vanka’s part. That was when the general populace decided to clear out. Now it seemed the bar was partially in flames, though I didn’t take time to look.

                A bit of Vanka’s cloak stuck out from behind the overturned table. The coals flared under my command, igniting the fabric. I grinned as she leapt around the room, cursing and batting at herself.

                “You dance beautifully,” I called.

                She snatched a chair and sent it arcing toward me. I ducked, and it splintered against the wall. The room suddenly went quiet.

                “Rolf,” Vanka said.

                “Yeeeees?” I stayed huddled on the floor. I wasn’t about to fall for that.

                “Where is he?”

                “Where is who?”

                “You know who,” she snarled.

                “Ooh, this is a fun game. Do you mean the King of Avary? I believe he’s in his castle.”

                “He’s gone, Rolf.”

                I popped my head over the pile of crates I’d been hiding behind. The golem had vanished. A few drops of molten metal were cooling on the floor, and a black hole had burned into the wooden planks from a red-hot lump of coal.

                “Rather clever for a golem, isn’t he?” I remarked and jumped as Vanka let out a deafening shriek.

                “You mud-humping, slug slime!” She charged at me, but I cowered, holding up my hand placatingly.

                “Now, hold on, Vanka, my dear. Staying here and beating each other into a bloody pulp isn’t going to do either of us any good.”

                Her nostrils flared, eyes blazing like an angry bull.

                “We could work together,” I coaxed. “Split the reward.”

                “Split it?” She spat on the floor. “After I caught him and you let him escape? You’re lucky I don’t skin you alive and wear you for boots!”

                “Fair. I’ll admit you’ve earned perhaps a bit more for getting us this far. How about, and it hurts me to say this, I take a mere a third of the reward, plus”—I rubbed my chin thoughtfully—“a pittance, only half of another third? All the rest will belong to you.”

                Vanka frowned, considering this, before she snorted. “As it should be.”

                I grinned like a cat. “Shall we be off then?”

                “Fine.” She yanked her dagger from the wall and shoved it into her belt. “But stay where I can see you.”

                “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

                The inn collapsed in a shower of red sparks, but we sped on, following the trail of molten metal and heavy stone tracks, into the night, after our prey.

Gille, The Bard of Falutia

Between the treacherous forest where only foul spirits dared to tread and the wide waters of the Alamanthanine Sea, there stood the small kingdom of Falutia. And in Falutia, there lived a bard of such renown that his name was spoken in hushed whispers from the sandy shores to the peaks of the snowy mountains. The mere mention of his arts upon the lute strings sent a shiver through even the most brutal mercenary, for he was, without a doubt, the worst singer ever heard in those fair lands.

                His name was Gille.

                His singing brought to mind the scratch of dead branches against gravestones, and his lute playing stirred even the most war-hardened soldier to tears of despair. Wherever he went, always in cheerful song, the road cleared before him. Thief, trader, brave wanderer, or stalwart servant of the king, it made no difference. All fled at the first echo of his strains through the trees, and the birds migrated south no matter the season.

                In the spring of that year, the king’s daughter and only child was to have her twenty-third birthday, and as tradition dictated, it would be the year she chose a suitor to take up residence with her in the stately castle of Falutia. Lords, ladies, dukes, duchesses, knights and squires, minstrels and dancers, and most importantly, eligible princes came from all reaches of the land. Tents and pavilions sprang up. Sweet strains of music and the mouth-watering scent of delicious treats filled the air. Jesters jested, knights jousted, and wild celebration ensued, all to culminate in the day when the princess would choose her prince.

Continue reading “Gille, The Bard of Falutia”

The Fog: Revisited

I thought we’d dip into the archives this week. Please enjoy The Fog, first published in March 2020. For more stories, visit my archives here.


The tiny village nestled in a valley carved between two rugged mountains. Forest blanketed the rocky slopes stretching endlessly away from the small clump of huts. For as long as she could remember, a heavy fog had laid over the land. The residents of the village moved always in a hazy mist, their clothing and hair wet and limp from its cloudy blanket. White sheets hid the tops of trees, and she moved through the forest as if through a great hall, with a ceiling of cloud, pillars of wood and bark, and a soft carpet of moss, damp and silent, beneath her feet.

She tugged her furs more tightly around her shoulders and readjusted her grip on the leather-wrapped handle of her bow. Since the first gray light of dawn had filtered down through the mist, she had been out in the forest hunting. With any luck, she would return with a few hares or grouse, their downy and feathery coats dark and slick with moisture.

The sound of steps on leaves floated through the trees, and she froze, crouching in the underbrush. The steps stopped, and she held her breath in the silence as neither hunter nor prey moved. A soft chuffing floated through the trees. Deer. Her grip tightened on her bow. Scents hung heavy in the mists, and deer usually avoided the forests near the village, but a harvest like that could feed them for days. The chuffing stopped, and the steps resumed. Through the mist hanging between the trees, she could see a dark form moving slowly up the slope. Antlers glistened white in the occasional flicker of light that filtered down to the forest floor.

Her arrow would never reach its target through the thick undergrowth, so she quietly followed, drawn forward by the occasional chuffing and the sound of hooves on damp leaves. A soft breeze brushed her cheeks as it floated down the slope toward her, carrying her scent away from her prey. The stag moved slowly onward, occasionally stopping to lift its great head to the wind and inhale, its grunting breaths making her hold her own until their journey resumed.

The ground became slick and the air heavy the further up the slope they went. The fog grew thicker until she could barely see the wet leaves beneath her leather shoes. An occasional snort and the sound of shifting undergrowth through the fog led her forward with timid steps. The heat in the air grew stifling, and the mists swirled around her like phantoms. She was about to turn back, giving up all hope of bringing down the stag, when the rushing roar of water caught her attention.

Curious, she fought her way onward through the mist, the roar growing to an earth-shaking thunder. A loud snort rang out behind her, and she whirled to see the stag watching her. He turned and darted back into the fog. A gust of wind sent the mist swirling away from her revealing a deep chasm carved into the earth, the edge inches from her feet. A rush of water cascaded into it. She grabbed a nearby tree branch and leaned out to gaze down into the pit, the scorching mist burning her face. At the bottom, dizzyingly far below, a red mass heaved and spat as the water poured into it. Billows of steam belched up toward her. She stared into the heart of the earth until her eyes ached with the heat.

The stag had seen her, and the morning had long since passed, so she turned her steps back toward the village, searching for the steady decline of the ground under her feet. Her hair hung loosely around her face, and her furs were drenched. She shivered as the air began to cool around her, chilling her damp clothing. The trees grew tall around her again, but she recognized none of them. She fought her way onward, more and more disoriented, until she had little hope of finding her way back to the village.

She stopped to free a pebble from her shoe, and when she looked up, the stag was standing at the edge of the swirling mists, staring at her. With a loud snort, he spun, rushing into the fog. She stumbled onward drawing up short when she saw the stag again standing at the edge of the fog. With another snort, he retreated into the white mist, and she found herself led onward by its ethereal form, the ground gradually sloping away beneath her feet.

The trees suddenly ended, and she stumbled into a familiar clearing. It was the spreading field of browning grasses around the village, their blades wilted beneath the heavy fog. The stag stood at the edge of the trees, watching her, the tall undergrowth brushing the wet fur of his belly. Dropping to one knee, she notched an arrow and drew back her bow with cold fingers, the tip trained over the creature’s heart. For a moment, they stared at each other before she let the string loosen and dropped the bow to her side. With a snort and a toss of his head, the stag galloped back into the forest.

Work in Progress: World Building

I don’t think I’m going to get any writing prompts out this week, so I thought I would post a brief update on what has been keeping me busy.


I finished the draft of my science-fiction book and am setting it aside for a few weeks to allow myself a fresh perspective before editing. In the meantime, I am diving back into my fantasy draft. After reading through it, I realized the story world needs more development before it’s ready for what is turning into a multi-book series (Oops).

Below I will outline each of the elements I’m working on and how they impact the story.

MAP: The first thing I did when I started was to draw a map. My characters travel a lot, so I wanted to develop a better understanding of the terrain and geography. As the series continues, the rest of the land becomes important, so I placed and named all the major holds. The next step will be creating profiles for each of them (leadership, major imports/exports, attitudes of the citizens, terrain, history, etc) and developing the characters from each hold that will play a part in the story.

LORE: As I’ve been writing, I’ve also been developing lore ranging from the overall story of the land, including the creation ‘myth’ (though it’s not a myth), to the history of the country for the five hundred years before the story within the books begins. Both are tied to the plot, so I want to make sure they are developed before I move forward.

SOCIETY: Developing recent history as well as some societal structures informs the way people will act. There are two races within my world and while their cultures intertwine, they are still unique in the way they organize themselves. Understanding these hierarchies and where my characters fit into them, informs how they act and are perceived. Each race has its own abilities that directly impact their culture and how they interact with each other as well as how they interact with the other race.

BACK STORIES: Each of my main character’s backstory becomes pivotal to the plot. I feel comfortable with their personalities and where their storylines enter and intertwine since I’ve already spent a lot of time with them. However, while working through these details and the ending of my draft, I realized my villains are currently flat and undeveloped characters. I tried to write some dialogue with one of them and I had no clue what he would say, so that will be my project over the rest of the week: making my antagonists dimensional people with clear motivations. Being evil for the sake of being evil doesn’t work.

LANGUAGE: The ancient language of one of the races plays a huge part in the plot as well as influences the way characters speak. While no longer commonly spoken, it permeates the colloquial language of the entire world. The runes I created were also used to name several of the holds which were founded thousands of years ago when the language was spoken. While this is in no way a functional language (I’m not Tolkien), I am creating enough to color the story.

OUTLINING: My draft was…a bit of a mess, so I went through and outlined what was happening. Doing this helped me realize I had no idea what the impetus was in the middle of the book. While character development was occurring, the plot was dragging along if it was there at all. Once I realized that, I was able to take a step back and pay more attention to what was happening in the world as a whole. This gave the characters something to react to, opened up the world, and increased tension. Stakes are important.

While time-consuming, this work is going to create a strong foundation for my story and ensure that all the books in the series are congruent. I would hate to get three books in and realize I left out a major, plot-destroying element. I also love doing it. My creation myth is one of my favorite things that I’ve written. For anyone curious, here is the working blurb for my current draft.

For as long as she can remember, she has lived within the dark monotonous safety of the tower. Challenged by unsettling dreams and the arrival of a mysterious prisoner, she begins to wonder about the unreachable outside world and even herself as she realizes she has no idea who she is, why she’s there, or the purpose of the silver collar around her neck.

More soon!

~ R. E. Rule