XII: Wandering Eyes

Entry: XII

Ice blue eyes, adorned with the intricate makeup of a seer, peer into a levitating amethyst the size of a sturdy knight’s head. The many jagged edges projected the peering eyes, scattering them amongst the walls and ceiling, in kaleidoscopic brilliance about the study room.  The polished furniture glowed with violet luminescence.

The door creaked open cautiously.

The magnificent stone crashed to the ground in an instant. The precious thing now lay smashed in pieces, void of light, on the stone floor.

“Unbelievable wretch!”   …is what she wanted to say, but through her reserve and wisdom, she spoke softly.


An awkward looking young caretaker inched his way into the room. He felt a deep tremble in his gut –as if someone had pumped him promptly with rotten air.

The pressure started up his torso and he nearly felt as if he was about to vomit. He clasped his hands tightly around his mouth and gagged.

The seer watched unamused. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the magic’s adverse effects or her intense, unwavering, fixed eyes.

The several moments it took him to regain composure felt longer to him than the dozen tower floors he climbed to deliver a very simple message.

She spoke again “A gemstone is to magic as the mighty dam is to our Draumer river… if you break it, you’ve released the flood; most respond poorly.”

Turning away from him she sat back down at her desk.

Half speaking, half choking, the man responded. “Of course Lady I-*heuck*… apologies… L-lady Ingrid.”

She scooted the chair around towards the door, folded her hands, and closed her eyes. Even the lids of her eyes burst like the sun with extravagant color. She dropped her forehead to her hands and began messaging her temples.

She spoke wearily. “So… the Count’s here then?”

“Yes, Milady”

“And I’m supposed to sup with him or some formal nonsense?”

“The Jarl’s intent was to have y— was to include you in this very important dinner, yes.”

“I will not.” Lady Ingrid turned back towards her desk and pulled a leather bound book out by the spine.

“But Lady, the Jarl commands—“

“—Nothing of importance! Now, you will go to Sigismund and fetch me a new amethyst, which the Jarl will be charged for, and leave me to study in peace!”

The young man abruptly dipped back outside and close the door tight behind him.

“Every time I stumble on something interesting…” She soughed “Formalities…”

Using her index finger and propping her chin on her free hand, she flicked open a book of hand-drawn illustrations and descriptions of elves. She peered her eyes on the ancient lettering.

“Now… who is in my city?”



Game of Thrones anyone?


What’s your house? I dare say I am a Stag, a Baratheon. (Black of hair.)
Our circle of gamers consist of many houses… even a few Lanasters. Did you just feel that shiver down your spine?
But I can’t help feeling that as a group, no matter what are houses may be, we become Starks.

Entry XI:Writhing and Slithing

Entry XI:

As we violently coughed up the dirt from our throats, I dropped the rustic bronze lantern and it went tumbling down the stairs. On the last step, it burst and the oil reserve in the bottom of the lamp ignited into a flame that was as loud as it was hot. It only took a few moments to die down, but the oil trailed the flame towards the far reaches of the basement. From my angle on the staircase, I could make out a shadow… it looked like the shadow of some kind of plant. Abeline was still wiping the dust from her eyes as I slowly inched down the case toward the slow withering flame. As I placed my foot on the last step, the shadow moved –fled actually, like a sentient being. I started backing up the stairs and intertwined in the sound of the flame, I heard an airy “hiiissssss” .

I grabbed Abeline’s shoulder and guided her back up the stairs as hastefully as possible. She was still wiping at her eyes annoyingly and strung together a line of bitter remarks. “Dust… I hate every little devil-ridden particle that ever came into existence.” She moved on to brushing off her shoulders while I rummaged through a closet for a spare lantern. “Right, more fire, that’s what you need.” She flicked one last fleck of dirt from her sleeve and started back towards the basement steps. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to extinguish the little abyssal portal you spawned in my basement. I mean, I’ll give you lessons in black arts if you’d like, you don’t need to go chucking explosives down the steps every time you want a bit of fire.” She smiled facetiously.

I stopped her and went over everything I thought I saw.

“Wait, Leafe, listen to yourself. You thought you saw a living plant? Those are rare in the wilderness, let alone in small, lightless, cold cellar.”

“Can we at least go down prepared?”

She sighed, called me a frightened… skallidash? –some creature I’ve never heard of. Anyway, she did agree, and we each nabbed a machete. She insisted on holding the lamp this time, so I grabbed a slightly worn torch out of my pack.

We descended.

At the bottom of the stairs, the flame had become weak, and we couldn’t see to the far reaches of the walls. Abeline froze up. I gave her a little jab. “What is it?”

“You’re right” she replied. “There is something down here. I can smell it’s pollen.

Over the flame? I thought. All I could detect was burning oil, and here I though elves were supposed to be the ones with the heightened senses.

She narrowed her eyes to one corner of the room. I did too, and as I did, the light of the flame faded from my mind, and the outline of a writhing, human-sized, living plant protruded from the wall and slithed its way across the ground like a snake toward us.

She whispered “Alright, you’ve got one shot. It’s a man-eater; don’t let it get close, toss the torch.”

“Why don’t you just blast it like you did the pirates?”

“I can’t see balderdash, come on mister elf, I know how those eyes of yours work; they use ‘em in sight potions.”

“Wait-Wa?” I stood abruptly and insulted, forgetting about any degree of danger, the very same danger that had in the same instance whipped out a vine seized my torch-bearing arm and yanked me to the soggy, cold dirt floor. I landed smack on my stomach and found myself sliding into a gaping, drooling mouth. If Cerberus was a plant, and had only one head, this would be it. Abeline took a couple blind shots and two hit the oversized Venus-Flytrap. Its grip around my wrist tightened as it screeched and wailed in pain. I dropped my machete and chucked my torch, clanking it against its head. In three different spots, flame continuously spread across the poor wretch and it finally let go its grip. Abeline walked towards it blasting repetitious shots, an onslaught of flame, not giving the thing any time to recover from each last blow until it lay smoldering and crackling at her feet. The hiss was now unmistakable, a heightened pitch over the flame, painful and sorrow ridden.

Back upstairs we gathered around the batch of artificial wine Abeline had just prepared.

“What… what was that?” I finally broke the most uncomfortable and confusing silence I ever sat in.

Her eyes narrowed on her cup, and then to the rippling image of a candles reflection in her wine. “A twist of nature… things that rise from the ashes of despair. It happens to plants with souls. It happens when they are cut from the world, and removed from the sun.”

“Plants with souls? Like an ent?”

She nodded “Ents are a good example, but there are many others –vines with consciousness, helpful saplings, blades of grass that can return to the earth to offer a traveler a walking path, or subtlety skew his sense of direction if they side against him.”

“So this plant…”

“It became abominable, a twist of nature, like I said.”

“So, how did it get in your cellar then?”

Abeline stood up and finished her wine in one heaping gulp. She broke her soft spoken word with a bellowing command. “Leafe, give me a hand locking up tonight.” She approached a window looking out onto the avenue leading up to our bar. The twilight hour had begun to set on the cobble stone.

She looked back with a smirk of confidence. “Ready for business.”

Chapter 10: Decadent Streets and Strange New Brews

The guard not only directed us to “The Prancing Witch” but led us there, and bid his partner adieu, promising to be back within the hour. He walked ahead of us at first, talking about the history of all the buildings, the fine architecture of old constructs desperately clinging to preservation. The city was littered with both culture, and vestiges of war.

After we had marched down countless streets and traversed a handful of short-cut alleys, we approached “The Prancing Witch”. By this point the Guard had led his hand to Abeline’s shoulder… a little too touchy perhaps; Abeline cringed for a moment; she looked at me and rolled her eyes. This didn’t seem like the sort of place you’d want to boast your tourism in, a touchy guard was better than no guard; the merchant’s here were ruthless, I could see it on their faces—they could smell our foreign air.  Our tavern was clear at the end of a colorful street, past a long stretch of narrow city townhomes—homes built into each other in a collision of architecture, culture, and personality, that had been transformed into a sort of wild bazaar. Colored, brightly dyed linens hung out windows drying, dripping unto the canopies of street vendors that have transformed their porches and front rooms into store fronts. I remember master’s mutterings before I left, “You can find anything on those streets… be careful Leafe.”

“Clear a hole, c’mon you, step aside.” The guard pushed his way through a bustling crowd of bidders and hagglers. Men and woman walked through with baskets of cheap jewelry and trinkets, holding fistfuls of whatever shiny things they were peddling over their heads.

The shouting was insufferable. Though I’m the only one who seemed to think so. Abeline, though a witch, seemed to adore the hustle and bustle. Her eyes fixed from shiny nick-nack to brilliant fabric, to spectacular doo-dad. And when we passed the herbalist stall, I had to pull her along as she grabbed the side of her coin purse and charged towards it.


Old, dank, creaky, and yet… very homey—The tavern of the Prancing Witch embraced us seamlessly into her care. Cleaning the place however, was a journey in itself.  There was dust left unperturbed for what seemed ages—so rooted into the furniture on which it lay, that extracting it from the wooden chairs and tables felt like an advanced form of alchemy.

Abeline took on a motherly role, which I didn’t at all mind. She set me up with a spacious room, abundant in chests, wardrobes, writing desks, and a bed which after cleaning, was the best I’ve ever rested my body on. She, naturally nabbed the master bedroom and one smaller room adjacent to hers which mysteriously accumulated magical nick-nacks, potted herbs, potion bottles, and… organic parts—fur from a certain woodland kritters, an over-sized eyeball plucked from who-knows-what. I felt it best not to pry into these matters.

That left the remainder of the upstairs hallway opened to guests and tavern-goers whom couldn’t stumble their way back home. They didn’t appreciate the obligatory fee that coincided with being put-up for the night; however, it kept them from passing out in our alley-way and thus, kept away guards and pick-pockets.

Those first few weeks were full of scrubbing, swabbing, sanding, finishing, and all stuff I was used to from my past laborious occupation, and didn’t mind in the least. And when we got sick of dust and splinters, we took trips to local vineyards, which are plentiful in Draumerheim, and forged relationships, making deals for wines and mead.

Abeline and I plunked a barrel of sub-par red wine onto one of our tables.

“Alrighty pointy, pay attention, this is how we sell wine.”

She pried open the barrel and took a small taste with her finger. “Be a dear and run up to my room; there’s a small box of spices and fruit peals under my bedside stand.”

When I returned with box in hand, a faint, lingering purple smoke had just dissipated from above the barrel.

“What was that?”

“What was what? Oh good! The spices. Spill ‘em. Now.” She pointed with her index finger into the brew.”

“All of-“

“Yes, all of ‘em.”

I dumped the contents of the small box into the wine. Upon hitting the surface there was an oddly volatile splash, larger than I expected, almost as if the wine was somehow… lighter. And as the heavy bits of dried fruit absorbed the juice and had begun to sink to the bottom, somehow the faint rusty red begun to deepen into a rich sanguine pool.

I could feel my face flushing just at the scent of it. “Oh my… that smells incredible.”

It wasn’t often that I paid compliments, but the aroma rising up from this brew sent a series of chills and sensational tinglings throughout my body. Abeline smirked with a proud glint in her eye. “And this lovvie, is how we make profits.”

She sighed and paced towards the basement door behind the bar with her arms at her waist and gave a “humph.” “Looks like we ran out of excuses not to clean the basement.”

Armed with lanterns and mops we started descending into the unknown. Each creaky step let up a cloud of soot. I coughed out the words “When was the last time—“ I put my hand up to my throat, “Gods.” I stood still and rubbed my tongue against my teeth trying to not think about all the questionable particles leaking into my lungs. “When was the last time someone’s been down here?”