The exercise:
Today, slightly later in the month than usual, we return to Mejaran.
At this point if you haven't already contributed to the story we're likely too far gone for you to try now. So I hope you enjoy reading it and feel free to find another prompt in the archives to write on, should you need to get your practice in today.
Work went well again today, now it's time to get things done around the house and farm until I'm back at the gym on Thursday night.
Mine:
As Azmar pushed his way through crowds of disoriented and injured villagers, with black smoke searing his throat and obscuring his vision, he began to wonder if Father Merrow's tales of hellfire and brimstone had been made real in his humble home of Mejaran. Regardless, it probably would have been a good idea to drag the slender holy man along with him.
If nothing else, he could have been kept busy with the task of ushering the dying to the other side.
Rounding the final corner before Dr. Jaycox's offices, his feet failed him and he fell to his knees in the dirt. His old friend's office had become an inferno but he was still able to see beyond it, to the far end of the street. Villagers were bringing their injured from the pub, blood oozing from their arms, faces. From a missing leg.
They had come for the doctor's aid.
But the doctor was no more.
"You did this!"
The shout roused Azmar from his daze, brought him unsteadily to his feet. He turned to see Yarel stumbling towards him, sword in hand and a pink bandage wrapped around his head. Not far behind him came Liefert, limping but determined and fearsome in his rage.
"What...? No! I had nothing to do with this!"
"Liar!" Yarel spat blood as he continued to close the distance. "We know what you've been up to! We've seen you with the Principals!" Azmar began to retreat, his hands raised before him. Empty, for now. "We know!"
"Traitor!" Liefert drew his weapon even as he fell further behind his companion.
"I don't know what you think you know," Azmar said, "but you must listen to me! This is not my work! We have no time to argue now - there are lives in desperate need of saving. Let us talk afterward, please. I beg of you!"
"The schoolhouse, Azmar?" Yarel hissed, not seeming to have a heard a word his intended target had spoken. "You would go so low as you reached for some selfish, glorious heights? You sicken me!"
"Unplug your ears, child! I would never go this far!" Azmar paused in his retreat, an unfamiliar feeling in his breast. It took him a moment to recognize the peace that speaking the truth brought on. It had been a very long time.
"You will die for this!" Yarel screamed, raising his knife high as he lurched closer.
"Calm yourself, son!" Jocelle's voice froze the three potential combatants in place, their heads swiveling as they attempted to find the speaker. Drifting clouds of smoke and the chaos overtaking the village made the task more difficult. "Azmar is innocent... in this matter at least."
"What are you saying?" Liefert asked the question that her son could not, for he was too preoccupied with battling his urge to strike Azmar down despite his mother's words.
"He does not have a hand in this madness." Jocelle emerged from an alley that billowed smoke, her outline initially confusing the three men who watched her. She was hideously misshapen at first, but then she came closer and the growth on her right shoulder revealed itself to be a Great Silver Owl, regarding them without blinking from his perch. "I, however, know who does. Come, I will take you to him."
2 comments:
Oh wow, one little explosion (ok, maybe three) and suddenly everything's changed! You've done a great job of picking up most of the major characters there and bringing them together in the confusion and shock and showing how real they've become. They've all grown so much over the course of 11 months! Yarel and Liefert feel really vibrant in your writing. And Jocelle's showing her true colours at last -- fantastic!
Mejaran
Lady Margaret was in deep conference in her grand hall when the doors opened and Jocelle led her small band of followers inside. Yarel and Liefert were treading on her heels, anxious to see who was responsible for the tragedy befalling Mejaran, and behind them came Azmar, his hands bound as he'd wanted to help the injured but Liefert had insisted on bringing him with them.
"So that you can pay for your part in this," he'd whispered grimly as he bound Azmar's hands. Orsana followed, her face creased with worry and stained with smoke already.
"Get out!" screamed Lady Margaret. Her face was white and pinched, her hands were shaking. Principal Olean turned, revealing his face. He was holding a buttered tea-cake in his hand, with a bite taken out of it already. The second man didn't turn.
"Guards! Guards!" Though she shouted louder each time, no-one came.
"They're helping the injured and the wounded," said Jocelle. "A far better use of their time, I'm sure you'll agree."
"Principal Olean," said Liefert, his voice trembling with rage. "So you did this." Yarel started forwards, his fists clenched, and Jocelle grabbed his collar to hold him in place.
"No." The Principal looked worried, and Lady Margaret looked scared. "No, I'm not guilty! Tell them, Margaret. Tell them that I didn't do it!"
"You started it, a very long time ago," said Jocelle. Her words were soft, and there was a sadness in her eyes. "When you ordered the death of my husband. Which the man next to you carried out, didn't he?"
Greg - eh, things needed to be shoved forward at this point in the game. Thanks for the kick in the pants your October entry provided :)
Great continuation. The final confrontation, at long last. Very nicely executed.
Please pardon the potential pun.
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