Shortstories

My name is Mari. I had a family name, many years ago, but once I chose to abandon my family’s path in the world, to strike out on my own and master the mysteries of the unknown, I thought it best to forsake any connection with this past.

Magic is a forbidden thing. The high churches burn witches and warlocks, while the high sorcerers — too powerful to be stopped, even by the armies of the united Kingdoms — are quick to destroy those who appear too eager, ambitious, or dangerous. There is no confusion as to why; Magic is a powerful and dangerous thing. The fae and enchanted creatures of the wild use magic freely, and their corruption causes daily strife. The dark mage-lords of old destroyed kingdoms with their power, and the High Sorcerers are too powerful to hinder.

Six Trials of the Weavers, along with 1888 Amenti, was an experiment to see what short-stories could be created through solo journalling RPGs. The following is the behind-the-scenes dice-rolls and card-pulls that created the short-story, along with some final thoughts.

Wretched thing.

Holly opened her eyes. The bugs were gone, her flesh was whole. The path was nowhere to be seen.

We are not Spiders. We do not Lie.

The mists slowly began to receed, drawing away like reverant priests. Holly stood up, her eyes scarcely believing what they were seeing.

We are Weavers, and we have tested you thrice.

The three figures were there, standing at the other side of a long bridge. The buzzing that had once filled her head now echoed from deep below in the chasm.

One final test awaits you.

At last, Holly couldn’t take it any longer. She collapsed to the ground, rolling onto her back. The world danced around her in a flurry of sights and sounds. She turned away, clutching at her head, struggling to breathe steadily. She could feel herself vibrating as she spat up the contents of her heaving stomach.

Finally, the world began to slow its dance, the music and sweet savory fading into memory. Holly rolled onto her back once more, at once grateful and at the same time struggling to hold on to a bit of the strange and horrifying world she had seen. Strings of atoms wound around each other, webs of cause and effect causing vibrations, waves that carried flotsam and jetsam to far and distant shores.

The needle was made of old dry bone, and the thread was a thin strong silk. The fabric had a pattern already sewn into it with the same white silk, and the paper — the paper was thin dry leather, skin from some animal. Holly struggled not to think about what kind of animal it might have been.

On the parchment, a strange and scratchy handwriting surrounded bizarre symbols. It was writing of some kind, possibly a language…diagrams? Were these instructions? Holly looked at the sewed pattern on the fabric; it certainly appeared incomplete to her.

She studied the needle carefully and observed the spool for markings. She flipped the fabric over, checking the stitching from both sides. She gave the strange language only a cursory glance — she knew she wouldn’t be able to decipher it — and focused on the ornate symbols.

“I don’t suppose you offer hints?” Holly couldn’t help herself. The cooing weaver shifted, the rustle of robes in the dark louder than thunder.

A sister would need none.

Holly’s bed was small, rickety, and at least a hundred years old. It had belonged to her grandfather, after it had been given to him by his grandfather, along with the tiny cabin. It had been the only piece of furnature in the cabin for years. Holly’s great great grandfather had been the chronically outdoors type, unwilling to do anything inside that could be done just as well outside. He cooked his food, mended his clothes, polished his rifle and sharpened his tools all outdoors. He only slept inside, and even then only when it was too cold, wet, or dangerous to sleep outside.

Holly’s grandfather was nowhere near as outdoorsy, so he had improved the cabin with some modern renovations. A sink, a fireplace, a few cupboards and shelves. It was nice and cosy, the perfect place to get away from it all.

Damn my fingers, I never thought I’d write a journal like this. Not one for writing, me. Spent my life doing a bit of this and a bit of that, as they say. Never caught. Was always proud of that, nothing could ever get pinned on me. Now, here I am in the middle of the desert. Nothing but sand and wind. Going to die here, so might as well put down my life on paper. Some fool thing to do before the sun cooks me alive.

My name was Robert Chickering, though I never used it much. Always a different name, me. Took what I needed when I could from those who had too much, and kept what I had from those who wanted it. Traveled around a lot, from the Americas to Europe and even further east. Managed to always stay one step ahead of the law, got while the getting was good.

Fitzwilliam G. Hastings sat up. At first, he was relieved. The sudden pain in his chest had lessened considerably. In fact, it was gone. Whatever it was, it had obviously passed, and he could get back to his usual Monday evening activity during Tax season, organising his stack of spreadsheets and ledgers that had been sent to him over the weekend by his panicked clients. It never failed. It didn’t matter how much money you had, or how familiar you were with it, everyone always put off working on their taxes until it was too late, and April 15th was staring them down, and desperation drove them to throw piles of paper at Fitzwilliam in the vein hope that he could make it all go away.

The rest of the day passed quickly, like a train speeding towards a broken rail. My heartbeat struck out the seconds like a countdown, echoing in my breastbone. I felt sick.

Some of my friends noticed, and gave me hugs between the last few classes. Lindsey found me in the parking lot after school, and offered to drive me home. I declined, and drove myself after getting another tender hug from her.

The walk up the driveway was the longest it had ever been.

I found the ring when I was sixteen.

It was buried deep in my grandmother’s things, in an old dusty chest in the closet. Everything in it belonged to my great grandmother, at least, that’s what my grandmother said.

I had spent the summer looking through old photographs and antique letters, curious about my past for the simple reason that I had no other part about myself with which to be curious.