Jodariel intended to go straight back to the wagon after her patrol. Intentions fell before the sight of Sir Gilman staring at a tree and quivering. She intended to move on and let the knight get on with whatever it was he was attempting. The good sir knight had other plans.
Sir Gilman spun around at her passing. His tail lashed into an unmistakeable salute as he straightened.
“Madam Jodariel, hold if you would please!”
“What is it?” She eyed him, uncertain now if he quivered from excitement or fear, or it seemed likely both. “Does something frighten you?”
“No! This knight knows no fear, he assure
He drifts. He’s far away and he’s present. He stands rooted in horror atop a mountain at the impossibility of it all. Faces familiar and new look to him and he cannot see them. He treads long lost paths, at one with the ancient trees. They have seen more than he will ever know. He is surrounded by his books in comfort and peace despite the inherent danger. Smoke, acrid and burning, the loss burns more than any flame could. He drifts.
There is a melody beyond his hearing but felt in his veins. It’s a distant thing, meaningless in this place between deepest darkness and star’s light.
It calls.
It calls and he cannot a
To March While Standing Still by SiverCat, literature
Literature
To March While Standing Still
Cabanela’s blood was ice burning through his veins. He stood to the side as faceless guests took their seats in broken lines. Only red and lavender stood out—a success in arrangements and another checkbox to tick off in the lifeline of tasks.
His gaze wandered to settle on an empty and meaningless patch of grass. As words rang out over the sombre silence, he faded, sinking down into memories where real truth lay. Only when the words stopped did he surface again into the wrong world.
Theirs was a silent exchange in the sudden noise and scattering chaos of departure. Her look was one of sad sympathy and he couldn’t say what
Past and Present, Old and New by SiverCat, literature
Literature
Past and Present, Old and New
Some days were easier than others. And other days… were not.
The days he saw Alma and saw blood. He couldn’t see past a white face and unseeing eyes. The sharp metallic scent filled his nose. He felt the cold sting of metal and the sickening wetness warming his hands.
A nauseating intimacy in one final horrific task.
No amount of water could clean these hands. No amount of worried looks and innocent questions could shatter the image.
Strangely, it was the disapproving flick of a cat’s tail that often brought him back to the present. No, she couldn’t be told. Spare her.
The days he saw Kamila and his daughter’
Inspector Cabanela stared out his office window as a chill winter rain pelted against it and ran in rivulets down the glass. He cupped his tea, finding himself in an oddly pensive mood despite the mounting tension, worry and excitement.
It was a single quiet moment—likely to be the only one this night. After five long years the final night was here. Preparations were complete. One villain to catch and one man to finally free. A smile spread across his face as he took a sip of his tea. Victory was within his grasp.
Naturally there would still be a hefty to-do list after everything was said and done: a father and daughter to be reunited
It was over. Jowd looked around the living room, his living room in his house, taking in every detail. This room he saw only this morning, not five years ago, and not ten years ago.
He felt as if he’d been running on automatic up to now. He’d chased Yomiel, they stood off and he made that terrible decision all over again. There was the flash of bright light and pain and the world doubled.
He knew everything that happened. After all he’d just experienced it. He just watched it all with three ghosts.
Everything after became a series of steps to follow. From the park to the hospital, and from the hospital straight to home wi
I always wondered what the odd old man did every evening with a broom in hand. He always stood at the door of a crypt, sweeping. I paid him no mind for a while. My mind was occupied with visiting my beloved.
Her grave stone rested, tucked in a corner of the cemetery under a large oak tree. It grew easier over time but each visit was a reminder of her absence.
And yet, every time I came, there was this man and his broom while above towered the angel statue of the crypt. I wondered what there was for this man to do every evening like this. Surely there shouldn’t always be something for this man to attend to every night. It was the great
Jade Curtiss, Colonel, Necromancer, the Emperor’s right hand man, and too many other titles, stared at the gleaming city of Grand Chokmah spread before him, dazzling and sharp against aching eyes. His side burned even as a numbness spread through him and he glanced down with a grimace at the red starting to seep through his uniform. His makeshift first aid was starting to give way. He had to hurry.
He braced himself and passed through the city gates, waving off the guards’ questions. A quick skim of the bustling city streets and a tide of dizziness told him to swerve into a side alley. He knew the ins and outs of the streets and
“What’s this? A half empty pint?” Lowell asked as he entered Ariela’s tavern and took in the sight of Syrenne sitting empty handed. He took a seat across from her and eyed the beer sitting on the table.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“What, can’t a girl drink in peace?” Syrenne retorted.
Lowell made a long slow show of looking around the tavern. It was a quiet hour with few people. The usual punters would come soon, he knew, but for now there was plenty of room for a roaring drunk and yet here she was being quiet and thoughtful. He’d certainly seen many strange things as a mercenary, not l
Tick, tick, tick. Click.
Vimes scowled at the board. That was another of his trolls taken out with a quiet, near instantaneous move.
“Your move, Vimes.”
Lord Vetinari stared at him over steepled fingers and Vimes found himself wondering again how he got roped into this. All the while the clock ticked away counting down their time.
It was unspoken fact that no one dared give voice to, yet finely distilled rumours already flowed from the palace and spread like alcohol in a dwarf bar throughout the city. The Patrician’s health was failing.
No doubt there were some few who saw opportunity and schemes were whispered from ear
Jodariel intended to go straight back to the wagon after her patrol. Intentions fell before the sight of Sir Gilman staring at a tree and quivering. She intended to move on and let the knight get on with whatever it was he was attempting. The good sir knight had other plans.
Sir Gilman spun around at her passing. His tail lashed into an unmistakeable salute as he straightened.
“Madam Jodariel, hold if you would please!”
“What is it?” She eyed him, uncertain now if he quivered from excitement or fear, or it seemed likely both. “Does something frighten you?”
“No! This knight knows no fear, he assure
He drifts. He’s far away and he’s present. He stands rooted in horror atop a mountain at the impossibility of it all. Faces familiar and new look to him and he cannot see them. He treads long lost paths, at one with the ancient trees. They have seen more than he will ever know. He is surrounded by his books in comfort and peace despite the inherent danger. Smoke, acrid and burning, the loss burns more than any flame could. He drifts.
There is a melody beyond his hearing but felt in his veins. It’s a distant thing, meaningless in this place between deepest darkness and star’s light.
It calls.
It calls and he cannot a
To March While Standing Still by SiverCat, literature
Literature
To March While Standing Still
Cabanela’s blood was ice burning through his veins. He stood to the side as faceless guests took their seats in broken lines. Only red and lavender stood out—a success in arrangements and another checkbox to tick off in the lifeline of tasks.
His gaze wandered to settle on an empty and meaningless patch of grass. As words rang out over the sombre silence, he faded, sinking down into memories where real truth lay. Only when the words stopped did he surface again into the wrong world.
Theirs was a silent exchange in the sudden noise and scattering chaos of departure. Her look was one of sad sympathy and he couldn’t say what
Past and Present, Old and New by SiverCat, literature
Literature
Past and Present, Old and New
Some days were easier than others. And other days… were not.
The days he saw Alma and saw blood. He couldn’t see past a white face and unseeing eyes. The sharp metallic scent filled his nose. He felt the cold sting of metal and the sickening wetness warming his hands.
A nauseating intimacy in one final horrific task.
No amount of water could clean these hands. No amount of worried looks and innocent questions could shatter the image.
Strangely, it was the disapproving flick of a cat’s tail that often brought him back to the present. No, she couldn’t be told. Spare her.
The days he saw Kamila and his daughter’
Inspector Cabanela stared out his office window as a chill winter rain pelted against it and ran in rivulets down the glass. He cupped his tea, finding himself in an oddly pensive mood despite the mounting tension, worry and excitement.
It was a single quiet moment—likely to be the only one this night. After five long years the final night was here. Preparations were complete. One villain to catch and one man to finally free. A smile spread across his face as he took a sip of his tea. Victory was within his grasp.
Naturally there would still be a hefty to-do list after everything was said and done: a father and daughter to be reunited
It was over. Jowd looked around the living room, his living room in his house, taking in every detail. This room he saw only this morning, not five years ago, and not ten years ago.
He felt as if he’d been running on automatic up to now. He’d chased Yomiel, they stood off and he made that terrible decision all over again. There was the flash of bright light and pain and the world doubled.
He knew everything that happened. After all he’d just experienced it. He just watched it all with three ghosts.
Everything after became a series of steps to follow. From the park to the hospital, and from the hospital straight to home wi
I always wondered what the odd old man did every evening with a broom in hand. He always stood at the door of a crypt, sweeping. I paid him no mind for a while. My mind was occupied with visiting my beloved.
Her grave stone rested, tucked in a corner of the cemetery under a large oak tree. It grew easier over time but each visit was a reminder of her absence.
And yet, every time I came, there was this man and his broom while above towered the angel statue of the crypt. I wondered what there was for this man to do every evening like this. Surely there shouldn’t always be something for this man to attend to every night. It was the great
Jade Curtiss, Colonel, Necromancer, the Emperor’s right hand man, and too many other titles, stared at the gleaming city of Grand Chokmah spread before him, dazzling and sharp against aching eyes. His side burned even as a numbness spread through him and he glanced down with a grimace at the red starting to seep through his uniform. His makeshift first aid was starting to give way. He had to hurry.
He braced himself and passed through the city gates, waving off the guards’ questions. A quick skim of the bustling city streets and a tide of dizziness told him to swerve into a side alley. He knew the ins and outs of the streets and
“What’s this? A half empty pint?” Lowell asked as he entered Ariela’s tavern and took in the sight of Syrenne sitting empty handed. He took a seat across from her and eyed the beer sitting on the table.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“What, can’t a girl drink in peace?” Syrenne retorted.
Lowell made a long slow show of looking around the tavern. It was a quiet hour with few people. The usual punters would come soon, he knew, but for now there was plenty of room for a roaring drunk and yet here she was being quiet and thoughtful. He’d certainly seen many strange things as a mercenary, not l
Tick, tick, tick. Click.
Vimes scowled at the board. That was another of his trolls taken out with a quiet, near instantaneous move.
“Your move, Vimes.”
Lord Vetinari stared at him over steepled fingers and Vimes found himself wondering again how he got roped into this. All the while the clock ticked away counting down their time.
It was unspoken fact that no one dared give voice to, yet finely distilled rumours already flowed from the palace and spread like alcohol in a dwarf bar throughout the city. The Patrician’s health was failing.
No doubt there were some few who saw opportunity and schemes were whispered from ear