Other Writing Samples

[Ahrima]

A couple years back I applied to a group RP off-site that centered around the Olympian Gods, and part of the application was to prove I could write the gods well. One of the myths they offered as a prompt was the return of Persephone from the Underworld, and since Zeus is very hard to get right I figured it'd be a good way to show off. I was accepted, and then found out the group was inactive and basically dead and sadly I never got to write with them.

Returned, but changed.

Eyes like stars looked over ripped crags, a sorrow in their gaze. So much desolation.

The new rain caressed this blasted land, reminding it of the touch of water. How many fair vales and isles of the sea yet suffered? How many good and just people starved for the sake of his sister’s rage? This storm wouldn’t bring back vegetation. It wouldn’t revive starved children.

It would only soften the soil, just enough that a grieving parent’s shovel would prevail in cutting out a tiny grave.

A glance over his shoulder. She stood there, golden blood shining on her fingers. Her nails bit into her palms, as her face shone with a terrible smile, oblivious to the dripping ichor. So expectant. So eager. Demeter looked like a hound about to be fed, excepting the cruelty in her eyes. The goddess needed vengeance the way a dog needed food.

Zeus turned away from her, a tired grimace set on his face. This was going to be tricky.

“Come to me, my son.”

His command, just a murmur, shot through the sky and pierced every listening heart. There was a sound on the air, like an arrow whistling across a battlefield.

The arrow landed softly, wings on his sandals, curved sword at his hip. “I hear you, father.”

Even on this bleakest of days, the diligence of Zeus’ son brought a smile to the God of Justice. It ghosted across his countenance, before he simply uttered, “It is time.”

With a nod, the psychopomp rose from his kneeling posture to float into the air. In his hand was a serpent-twined rod, shining with harsh light. It split the crust of the Earth with its glow, as the wings at the lad’s ankles beat faster and faster. With the speed of the dawn’s breaking, Hermes shot into the crevice underneath him, his path sealing behind him as he flew.

Zeus let out a breath. He was away. He could only hope now that Hermes knew what to say, what to tell them. The hardest part would-

Whipping around, the King of the Gods caught a golden blade between his fingertips as it arced towards his throat. The force of the strike traveled up his arm, jarring him. Zeus answered Demeter’s furious snarl with a disappointed sigh. “This is exactly why no one told you.”

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN?!” Her screeching was punctuated by the swing of her scythe. She yanked on the gilded haft, freeing the crescent blade’s tip from the grip of Zeus. It fell to rest on her shoulder, her body poised to swing again. “TELL ME!”

Glancing down at his hand, Demeter’s brother discovered a tiny bead of molten ichor forming on his thumb. She’d nicked him.

The last time his kin had attacked him with a blade of that make, the weapon had been three times the size. Adamantine, it had shone like the bow of the moon, glistening with the dried blood of the first Sky Father.

Blinking the memories away, Zeus’ soft tone buzzed with electricity. “Demeter. Your king can only forgive such an act once.”

This did little to quell her seething indignation, though she did not attack again. She only continued to breathe in ragged gasps, veil and hair both soaked by the rainstorm that raged still around the siblings. Her eyes promised pain. But she waited.

No turning back. He paused for a beat, to see if she really intended to listen. Then…

“Hades came to me, seeking to court her. I gave him my blessing. And I forbade him from approaching you over the matter.”

The wind rose to a howling gale as this betrayal set in. Strength seemed to flee Demeter’s arms, and her gilded scythe fell to the mud. She knelt as if to retrieve it, but then remained there on the sodden ground, her finger tracing the blade. Confusion, hurt, and naked despair were clear on her face. The wind had stripped her visage of its veil.

“Have your children ever been taken from you? Brother?”

There was no preamble to this query. Tired and worn, it escaped her lips. She did not look at him; she kept her eyes on her spattered golden reflection within her blade.

Zeus said nothing, for they knew both the answer to the question. More sat on her tongue, too hurt to escape. Gold dripped from her brother’s thumb. He could not see whether she was crying. There was too much rain.

“I know how you cherish Hermes. If I dragged him away, screaming and fighting, to cut him into tiny pieces with this tool, would you rage as I have? Or would you stand there, as you do now, a heartless callot, and just look at me?”

Ah. Now they got to it. Zeus took a step towards her, his head tilting in a question. “Interesting. I was there when Helios said Kore was taken. I don’t remember him saying she struggled.”

This awoke the hate in Demeter. She would not let this stand. Fighting to her feet, leaving her blade where it lay, she marched through the mire to shout in his face until her voice broke. “He is King Under All! Your elder brother! He has conquered titans and giants, so forgive my little flower if she could not fight back!”

Heaving breaths as she looked for a response. Indignation turned to confusion and anger as she saw the smug grin on her brother’s face. Finally, he had her.

“You know, you make an excellent point. Raised in a harmless valley, twittering nymphs as her only companions, never knowing the world beyond, how could she be expected to struggle against any captor?” The smile died, and he looked down on Demeter in judgment. “Tell me, what exactly does our daughter know of struggle?”

Fear. It gripped Demeter in a vice as implications fell down on her like drops from the sky. Glancing at the spot where his son had departed for the Underworld, Zeus sighed.

“You know the difference between Hermes and Kore? Hermes has killed giants, too. Hermes has stolen from his brothers and conspired against his stepmother and faced consequences for his actions. He’s been given the chance to learn. To become wise, become dangerous Demeter! Tell me. Is Kore dangerous?”

Like a woman possessed, she gripped Zeus by his sash, pulling her face to his. She spoke conspiratorially, in a furtive hiss.

“I’ll spare them all. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Your pets? I’ll bring bounty to the humans- even more. They will live in splendor not seen since the early days of our father’s reign. They’ll build towers to the sky, they’ll defeat disease and fly like we do! All that you’ve said they are capable of, I’ll see they reach it within the century. Just please, give her back to me.”

At this, Zeus put on a mocking face of puzzlement. “And here I thought you plagued humanity to punish me for my inaction.”

She was growing desperate now. “Punish my king? Never! I sought to punish them, obviously!”

“Punish them? For a crime they didn’t commit?” An incredulous chuckle escaped Zeus at this, and Demeter sensed she was not being believed. Frustrated, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“They began calling her Persephone!”

And now, the puzzlement was not mockery or playing. “The mortals call Kore ‘Bringer of Death’? When did this start?”

Aha! Triumph and hope sprung to uplift Demeter’s spirits. “Not long after I went searching for her. Only after talking with Helios did I understand. They’re already calling her his… queen.” She nearly choked on the word.

This curious news was not something Zeus was allowed time to mull over. An approaching rumble in the Earth became a deafening clash, as shattering stone opened a gateway to the realm of the dead. Hermes rose slowly into view, his magic wand alight. Behind him came the figure of a young woman.

She wore a dress as black as pitch, causing her sun-drained skin to almost glow like moonstone. Her hair was pinned with a simple ornament of platinum: a two-pronged fork. A few raven strands tossed about freely over one eye. Her feet were bare, and the only cosmetic on her face was a deep and dark red on her lips.

The same red as the fruit she carried in one hand. On her face was the look of a hoplite, bracing for the charge.

Zeus was suddenly reminded of a question he’d just asked Demeter. ‘Is Kore dangerous?’

Hermes ushered the young woman forward, fighting to keep his face neutral. But his father could see that the Messenger God was holding back a delighted smile.

Turning to look upon his speechless sister, Zeus gestured towards the Queen of the Underworld. “Why don’t we go and see which name our daughter answers to?”



The modern portrayal of Hades as a romantic sympathetic figure (rather than a perverted abductor,) is fairly well established, but given the role that Zeus plays in their courtship I've always been amused that modern writers seem to have no trouble writing him exactly the same way each time: as an egomaniacal moron with tyrannical power. I'd never advocate that Zeus is a tragically misunderstood hero who did no wrong, but I happen to believe he, much like Odin or Set or Ares or Mordred, makes a far better antagonist when written with more nuance.

 

[Ahrima]

Sometimes while doing this, you meet a writer who seems your destined penmate. That was the experience I had a few years ago, when someone reached out to me on a forum I was new to with an original fantasy idea, and then a starter, that made me want to write like little else ever has. Fueled by a mad muse, feeling inspired and unstoppable, I gave my all to this starter reply, which I'm still extremely proud of.

RISE OF THE HALF-KING
​

Talweer entered the command tent with purpose, his eyes moving in an arc about the room. Finding who he was looking for, he snarled. "What do you think you're doing, Vannlysse?"

The question was addressed to the young man who sat at the head of the table. It was a huge thing of ugly wood, covered in maps, whetstones, half-eaten lunches, and a few hands of playing cards. Some of the surrounding chairs were lying on their side, but only one other was occupied; beside the young man sat a little bald creature with gray skin. It's head was down, and it was scraping at something.

The young man's expression was weary as he gestured for Talweer to step forward. "You'll have to be more specific, old friend."

With a snort, Talweer strode to the end of the table and slammed his fist on it angrily. "My warriors' armor needs mending, but the Dwemur aren't at their forges. Apparently they're off looking at books, on your orders!" He spat out 'books' as if it was the vilest curse, and tossed his head, his horns waving angrily.

The beautiful sunset outside shone flaming light through walls of drab green cloth. The little gray one seemed to be minding his own business, though someone might have muttered under their breath, "...moron."

The table under Talweer's fist had borne many a beating at his hairy hand since the start of this campaign. Once, the sound had sent a chill through all assembled. Now, not so much. In fact, so familiar was the gesture that Halvar Vannlysse had to fight a small grin that was sneaking onto his face. And Gammel's commentary was not helping.

Giving his bald companion a pointed stare, the young man looked back to Talweer and shrugged. "They're not doing anything on anyone's orders. I gave the smiths the day off. I'm sure they're rifling through the capital's magic library. Would you deny them the chance to recover the lost sorcery of their people?"

Talweer's gaze became less ferocious, but he didn't relent. "Two days ago they were preparing for the feast and had no time, and yesterday they were busy cleaning up the feast's aftermath!"

Gammel murmured without looking up from his scratching. "Well if you remember, Talweer, we made quite a mess..."

Now Talweer let the table have it with both fists. "The point is that unless it was made of steel, I've never known a Dwem to clean anything! They are shirking their duty, and you are helping them, Vannlysse!"

Halvar raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your point is made, I hear you. I'll speak with Andvari tonight: their work in the library is their priority right now, but we'll see to it that a handful of smiths take work orders again, starting tomorrow."

Talweer studied his warchief's expression for a moment, then nodded a curt thanks.

"Glad that's sorted. Oh, before you go," he added, as Talweer had turned to leave, "I've something to ask of you. I was just discussing the matter of the first settlers with Gammel, and I'd like to prepare a detachment to go to the rear guard's aide within a fortnight; I was hoping you could recommend a few of your warriors personally? I thought perhaps Typrus might-"

Talweer's bellow of rage cut off all conversation, a single pawing hoof tearing up the soft turf the tent had been pitched on. Clumps of dark, rich soil flew to smack the tent's wall as Gammel griped, "He's taking this well."

"You dare, Vannlysse? You dare suggest my warriors turn from the front lines? The rear guard? I should gore you for even thinking it!"

Halvar's expression was as void as ever. The only way to calm a Tauren's rage was to show that it wasn't scaring anyone. "Typrus has a wife and child coming, and he's not the only one with family on their way. The rear guard have their own work to attend to; I worry the influx of people might be too much for them to handle."

Gammel stood on his chair, raising the gnarled wooden staff he'd been whittling with his pointed fingers. "And I worry that you go too far, Talweer. Your threats are treacherous, and you have yet to address our king with any of the decorum owed him."

"He is not king yet! And you..." the Tauren growled, pointing a furry finger at Gammel, "you will stay out of this, goblin."

All at once Gammel's dark eyes crackled with an amber light, his tiny robes ruffled by a sudden wind that came from nowhere. "Call me goblin one more time, Talweer. See what happens."

Halvar stretched, leaning his chair back and propping both feet up on the table. "That's enough, I'm getting a headache."

The two ire parties turned to look at him, embarrassed. The light and wind disappeared as fast as they'd come. Gammel bowed. "Apologies, lord."

Talweer scoffed, but, not to be outdone, he bowed stiffly a few degrees. Halvar pulled a gemstone from his pocket and began turning it over in his hands. It was a recent acquisition; cut triangularly with sides as long as his thumb, it was a bright electric blue. As he spoke, he rolled the stone over the knuckles of one hand.

"I promised you, Talweer, that I could win the support of the Jotun Elders, and I did. I promised you we would not freeze to death on our way to House Wulven's council, and we didn't. I promised you an army, ships to carry them across the sea, and victory once they'd landed. Now we sit in the heart of Phitearia, in its capital city, all its wealth and beauty belongs to us and I wonder.... what more must I do, what miracle must I perform, what mountain must I move before you trust me?"

Silence. To this, it seemed Talweer had no answer. His eyes were distant, as if remembering the frigid wastes of Elendhiget, the suffering of his people, and the day he met Halvar Vannlysse.

Halvar let the moment stretch on before saying softly, "The Greylings have been invaluable on this journey, and have sacrificed as much as the rest of us. Please do not let me hear you call any of their number 'goblin' again."

Silence once more, as Gammel sat again in his seat, a smug smile on his face. Talweer finally turned and stalked from the tent with one last snort.

The wall of cold indifference fell from the young warchief's face, replaced by naked relief and exhaustion. "That could have gone a lot worse." He plunked all four of his chair's legs into the grass and stood, walking around to a basin of water.

"I wish you would have let me put the bull-man in his place," Gammel remarked, inspecting the head of his staff before resuming his scratching. "You give him too much free reign."

"Gammel, if you don't like 'goblin,' then don't call him bull-man!" the chief laughed, washing his hands slowly. "And gods, no. If I let him pit his axe against your sorcery, we'd never find all the pieces of him. How would we give him a warrior's burial then?" Halvar pulled his soft red shirt from his body and tossed it aside, before splashing his face with water. "That's what I promised you, wasn't it? That you'd die as warriors, with names and dignity. Not as animals left exposed for ridicule and scavengers."

"And you've kept that promise." Gammel blew a few wood shavings off his workpiece. "I've officiated at many a mourning since we began this war. I know that those who've made it through the fighting are grateful to you. Talweer is too, in his own idiot way. Yet you still carry yourself as if you'd led us to defeat. Even now, you sit here in a tent while your soldiers are sleeping in the beds of Phitearian nobles, eating the elf-king's food, carousing in his palace!"

Halvar stared into a bronze mirror hung above his basin, as if the man he saw inside had offended him. "Innocent people have died, Gammel. Elven children, killed. Captured women were used and then thrown away like trash. I led you all here, full well knowing the reality of war. And I don't regret my decision. I wouldn't change the past. But I don't want to throw the continent headlong into that nightmare. That's not what I came here to do."

"Then don't. Don't let Talweer have his way." The little Greyling spoke flippantly, as if he were mocking Halvar's grim tone. "Tell him and his warmongers off. It's that simple."

Halvar straightened from the mirror and turned to face his sorcerer. "It's not simple at all! It's not just the Taurens who feel that way. How can I ask them to simply ignore their desires, to be content? Talweer wants more blood, more conquest, and who am I to deny him the kingdoms of men? He's pushing me out of selfish interest. And it is for my selfish desire I brought you this far. I told you years ago, I was using you all for revenge, and I begged you to use me. Now, simply because I'm satisfied, they should be too? What grand ideal is Talweer betraying, what oath or bond is he breaking, by burning for more battle?"

Gammel shook his head impatiently. "You forget, the Jotuns marked you. You are Kritravn. You are the white wing that flies home through blood to the tree. You are destined to be king of Phitearia. And that means king of Talweer, and all his foolish dreams of war." Gammel finally looked up at the young man, a well-meaning mocking in his eyes. "Hal, you came across the sea with nothing. You raised an army and gave us back our homes. Your troops look at you and see a king. But when you look in that mirror, you still only see dark purple hair and rounded ears."

Halvar turned away, embarrassed. He ran his hands through his deep indigo locks, and shrugged. "I'm a half-breed. A mongrel. My face screams it."

Gammel's laugh had a tinge of hopelessness to it. "So after facing down the Jotun Rūnd, after the Battle of Lailorial, after leading the charge at Farrenfall and surviving a spear through the chest, you still wish your hair was a little more human?! Your ears a little more elven? What will it take for you to look in that mirror and see a king?"

The young chief didn't have an answer in time.

A Wight scout burst into the tent, out of breath. His shortbow was drawn and there was a cut across his cheek. "There was a skirmish with three knights from Jera, just half a league from the city. All were captured. They claim to be messengers, but they attacked our patrol unprovoked."

Hal bent down to pull on his shirt. "Any casualties?"

"None. They weren't very good."

The reluctant King of Phitearia moved to a low table with his armor strewn about it, and seized a shirt of mail. "Call the Hinterūnd. And bring the prisoners into camp. It's been a long time since I spoke with a human."



That new partner of mine fell off the forum after our second or third post. It was a tremendous let-down at the time, but looking back later I realized I'd let myself down. This first starter might have been well-done and evocative, but my second and third posts were too caught up narratively in things that just didn't interest my partner. I'd been writing an epic, she'd been asking for a wartime drama. I'd taken far too long getting to what she had wanted to write with me, and she'd lost interest. I still cringe at the memory of it, but I keep this story as a reminder: collaborative writing is about engaging your partner, not proving yourself worthy of their time.

 

[Ahrima]

A starter to a story that sadly dropped off, a modern tale about the everyday lives of the supernatural.

Welcome to Raynesford

The motorcycle rumbled up to the low brick building, and idled for a moment before going silent in the parking lot. Its rider dismounted with a cautious look about him. Then he glanced once up at the stars before heading inside, past an old wooden sign that read 'RAYNESFORD COMMUNITY CENTER'.

Down the hall that smelled like a library, past a front desk that no one ever sat at anymore, to the only room inside with the lights on. Empty and unadorned, except for 20 or so metal folding chairs set up in a circle. The people sitting in them were about as normal as they came; the oldest looked to be in his mid-sixties, the youngest 18. They wore old jackets and dirty boots, faded ballcaps or wide-brimmed ranch hats. Their hands were calloused, their faces weathered by the elements and crinkly from smiling too much.

Over half the seats were full: looked like 15 folks in all. That was good. There was some light chatter when Don walked in, but it died quickly as he took his seat. Every eye watched him, but no eye would meet his gaze.

He cleared his throat once, and they all relaxed a bit.

"Alright people. Let's talk."

They all looked at each other for a moment, wondering who would go first. Then...

"I think patrol groups should be doubled up." There was general groaning at this. Folks usually groaned when Barbara talked, but she pressed on. "I get the feeling this will be a bad autumn and a worse winter. I don't feel safe in pairs anymore, not up in those woods."

The others yapped their displeasure at this. "Four to a group?!" "Let's just run the whole pack, in that case." "Don, set her straight, would ya?"

Donovan let them get it out of their system, before the young man raised a hand. The griping died down. "Seems to me like she's just saying the quiet part out loud. We all know something's off. These are not the nights to be careless."

"You rode here on a motorbike with no helmet."

Don shot Clyde a nasty look, but his friend just made a goofy face back. Clearing his throat, he tried to get back to it. "I won't make you double up, but how does threes sound? Can y'all handle that?"

They didn't sound overly enthusiastic, but no one met his eyes. "Alright then. We patrol in threes. Clyde, you mentioned on the phone you had an issue with the school?"

Twirling his mustache and lifting one foot to rest on his knee, Clyde nodded importantly. "I do, actually! My nephew came home the other day saying the most outrageous thing! He told me Alpha Wolves and pack hierarchy were all just made up nonsense!"

There was wild laughter at this from the townsfolk (excepting Barbara, who was head of the PTA,) with Clyde calling out over the mirth, "Sorry Don! Apparently there's no such thing as an Alpha Wolf!"

Rolling his eyes at his friend, Donovan allowed himself a wry smile at this. When the fun had died down, he chuckled. "Well, that's a little embarrassing to hear Raynesford Elementary is teaching as much, but y'know something? They're not wrong." He looked around at his friends and neighbors before adding, "Only wolf packs in captivity have an Alpha."

They all sobered up at this. You could have heard a pin drop. One of the electric lights overhead buzzed so faintly only a dog could've heard it. Don let the silence drag out before adding, "This ain't our world anymore, not by half. In many ways, we're all captives. But this is our town. And it always will be. So I know it's hard to talk about, but we've all smelt it on the wind, so let's just come out with it."

Looking around at each other fearfully, the pack waited to see who'd say it first. Finally Nancy said the word. "Magic."

And now they were all talking. "Big city magic, I'll reckon." "Wild magyks! The kind you spell with a 'y'!" "I never let Mikey out of my sight anymore, magic always takes the young first..."

Donovan sighed wearily. He felt a headache coming on. Whatever this magic-on-the-wind was, it couldn't get here soon enough. He wanted to deal with it and get it out of his town as fast as possible.