Category: Flash

Flash: Rafella de Sable (Part 1)

Erin Penn

The old flashes have run out, so I am doing my old D&D and other roleplaying games. I created Lady Rafella de Sable for a D&D campaign in 2005 while I lived in Texas. We played one game. This is her background Part 1. 

*** Rafella de Sable (Part 1)

To understand Rafaela’a history, you need to know about her grandfather. He is the Lord de Sablehart, and when he had inherited the line, it had been in a state of decline for a long time.

The present dynasty ruling the kingdom came into power because the heir of Argenthuse betrayed the old crown for the love of a woman.

As a thank you, the new King let the young man marry his elder sister and renamed him Duke de Sable in recognition of his close blood-ties to the crown and his betrayal of the old crown. The story of love faded in time; the story of betrayal so clearly shown in their name being changed to “Black Heart” stayed. Few were willing to trust the line in the political or business arenas. Slowly the glorious old line of Argenthuse, now de Sablehart, faded from lack of new contracts and contacts. In addition, the name is said to be cursed by the old dynasty for the betrayal. None remember the story of love, or that the heir had never sworn fealty to the old crown. The last of the Argenthuse had been sickened at how corrupted the court life had become, and made moves to protect his country.

All that is remembered is that this is a line of traitors.

The grandfather inherited the cursed, bankrupt title though he was the third son.

Over the years, the ducal lands were mortgage to maintain the lifestyle required of the title until eventually they had to be sold back to the crown. Though the title of Duke was never rescinded, once the lands were gone the family stopped using the title; they did not wish any indication that they were close family to the crown that had treated them so poorly. But they were still nobility, with a line that stretched back for four royal dynasties. Debt remounted until one Lord de Sablehart had to go to unreputable moneylenders. In his older years, he realized he could no longer borrow from Peter to pay Paul and informed his debtors of his state. The Guild took exception, as the old man still had family jewels, a country manor, a few townhouses – in the capital and elsewhere, and a number of other assets still visible. So they removed old lord and all but his youngest (and presumably, most malleable) son.

The new Lord de Sablehart understood the message, though saddled with death taxes as well as the backbreaking debt his father had been welching on.

He sold everything but an old townhouse in a backwater town to which he shipped the items that simply could not be sold – the family portraits, family-crested heirlooms (both the old Argenthuse arms – sable, a castle argent, and the new arms – sable, on side sinister a dagger impaling a heart argent) and the like. He had the moneylenders go through all the items until they agreed that nothing left was of any value except to him. Even the gems were removed from the old ducal cornet and the silver melted down. The townhouse had not been used in years, and had not been modernized with new amenities in over a hundred years. The roof leaked so bad that there were trees on the second floor.

Using this wretched building as a base, the young lad traveled with merchant caravans to other kingdoms using the only thing at his disposal, his training as a nobleman. His knowledge of etiquette, heraldry and languages held him in good stead was he tried to put coin in his pocket. On one such journey, he noticed a lady watching from the shadows. He discovered that she was the eldest of the royal house, but had been caught in a bed fire as a child. Badly scarred, no one with taste wanted the broken princess, and the family had too much pity to force her to marry any of the fortune hunters that sought out a quick title. De Sablehart saw the opportunity and spent a year courting the older lady. His family was cursed for the love of a princess; he thought it would be ironic if the fortune were restored because of the same.

His wife was appalled when she saw her new home, but her generous dowry paid for the basic fixing up. Being miserly from years of deprivation, de Sablehart only used enough make the building usable; he did not modernized any room but the kitchen. The balance of the money was invested in businesses in the area, including the Thieves’ Guild. Still hating them (though this was a different guild) for killing his father and brothers, de Sablehart’s sense of the ironic found cold comfort in them paying for his maintenance. His wife gave birth to four children, and the family line seemed to prosper.

Just when he thought he could make the next move to moving the family back to its old glory, the curse reared its ugly head in the form of Scarlet Fever. It took his precious wife (with whom he did fall in love and treated like the princess she was) and three of his children. One of his sons did survive, for the curse could not continue without the line existing, but the fever had damaged his hearing and maybe his personality for after that the heir never showed personal drive or initiative again. His father dictated his actions and Andre responded instantly and without imagination. The death taxes wiped out what little prosperity they had.

Forced to sell his share in all his businesses, de Sablehart went back to work – though this time he was deliberately sought out the solution of marriage for his son. And found it in ancient dukedom during his travels, making him wonder just how much the gods took personal delight in making his life perverse. Scarlet fever had touched that house as well, and the fever had stole all the wits from one of the daughters. Making certain his son and the brainless woman were caught in comprising situations that could only be interpreted as a romantic courtship, by those not aware of how little sexual drive either of simpleton adults had. When de Sablehart made overtures of consideration of marriage, the foreign coronet breathed a sigh of relief at getting rid of a major embarrassment.

The new dowry made the repairs to the house, bringing it up to the comfort of de Sablehart’s childhood, and the balance was invested to produce a maintenance income. Back on track, de Sablehart encouraged the two to produce offspring. It was not an easy task, but eventually the lady got pregnant and produced a daughter. Not something the Lord of the House wanted, as each daughter would need a dowry. The second try also produced a daughter and likewise the third. Refusing to give up, he hired a elven tutor to teach his granddaughters how to be ladies for that is the only asset they were to him. Items to sell off for money or politics. He paid special attention to the eldest, whom might end up being his heir. The upside for the girls is that the family curse does not seem to follow once their name is changed.

(Words 1208, first written for game 9/23/2005; first published 1/12/2020)

Flash: Ancestral Warrior

Erin Penn

Photo by Thao Le Hoang on Unsplash

The silent scream woke Troy, the claw scrapes against the non-existent tiles in the dirt floor screeched against his nerves.

A nightmare, to end a nightmare, to wake to his ongoing nightmare.

Fever burned at his sanity, hiding his loss temporarily in the flames. A solider outside a war zone, but never completely escaped from the war zone inside, the damaged black man searched with combat-sharpened eyes. The dark Vietnam medical shelter didn’t rate the name hospital, but it was all his father’s side of the family had available near their home, after forgotten landmine had found him. The dirt floors and makeshift walls left a haze of dust hanging in the moist night air.

There was … something.

He tried to leverage himself up to see further into the dark, a struggle with the damage along his side and his missing leg.

There.

That.

It hovered over one of Troy’s distant cousins, taking.

An apparition. Not solid, but more dangerous than despair.

Adrenaline flooded Troy’s system, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and promptly fell. One leg remained missing and would for the rest of his life.

His very short life, as the apparition had noticed him and left the local behind. It floated-crawled over the beds of moaning men.

Troy pulled himself up on one knee to face his death, hoping it’s all a fever dream, but something deep within said no. The same something that drove him into the army instead of suicide when his mother died. The same something that pulled him through the sand when he got shot in the Middle East. The same something that had him throwing a child aside from where they had been playing in the jungle right before his world exploded.

The incorporeal soul-sucking nightmare closed and hovered just feet away while Troy gritted his teeth and growled.

When it leaped, so did Troy – right out of his body into a new one, fully formed and encased in ancient bronze armor with a sword in his hands. His destroyed body left behind for now, dying without its soul. He had only seconds, maybe a minute, to act. Fortunately his time in Uncle Sam’s army made him an efficient killer.

 (Words 375 – first published 1/5/2020)

Other Cool Blogs: Magical Words 8/17/2009

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of Multipedia at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Magic Systems

Last month, the Magical Words posting from A.J. Hartley talked about Too Much Power. This week I thought I would circle back to an old post from David B. Coe on magic systems.

Magic in fantasy and powers in superheroes contain an affinity for exponential growth, reaching Too Much Power without much effort. The challenge is reigning in the power systems to make the story as much fun to read as it was to create the powers. 

Mr. Coe suggests three structures to control the systems:

  1. Limitations – Example, planetary gravity wells are limited to a certain distance from the planet.
  2. Costs – Example, escaping gravity takes propellant.
  3. Rules – Example, all matter is affected by gravity. Energy is not affected by gravity.

Be careful introducing exceptions to the rules to make your life as a writer easier. Gravity doesn’t get to change its rules. Well, it shouldn’t. I am sure some physicists will have a conversation with the universe creator someday about the deus ex machina of light which is both energy and matter.

The full post is here:

WRITING EXERCISE: Create one power or take one from a work in progress (WIP), just one power, for a fantasy, sci-fi, or superhero world. Define a limitation, cost, and two rules. Write a flash of 50-1000 words based on it.

***

Ancestral warrior. Limitation – most powerful in the ancestral lands, close to normal outside of the lands. Cost – obligation to protect all those of the tribe from those lands. Rules – (1) Lineage/blood-line only. (2) Peak physical, but not natural spell caster.

Look for the story Ancestral Warrior to be published Sunday 1/5/2020. You may recognize the protagonist if you have been following this blog for a while. This is where Honestly meets its Atlantis Wardens beginnings.

Flash: Dumped

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of KROMKRATHOG at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Rating: Mature

My neck hurt. My chin rested on my chest; I must have fallen asleep in a chair. A stupid plastic molded one, no cushioning at all. Oh, I needed a backrub. I rolled my shoulders and find my hand tied behind my back. My eyes burst open.

The room is lit by a bare lightbulb held aloft at the end of a ceramic elephant’s trunk not three feet in front from my downward looking eyes, flaming agony through my skull and frying my pupils. I snap my eyes close and roll my head around. God and goddess, I hurt. My mouth feels like a thousand cotton balls had been stuffed into it, after they had been used to clean ear wax.

I cautiously reopen my eyes. The room’s white walls reflect every bit of the luminescence rating the bulb is generating. The shadeless lamp set directly on the highly polished reflective white floor is plugged into coverless wall socket.

I squint against the pain and look anywhere but the eyeball searing light. My chair is surrounded by a mound of white granulates; considering my crowd, I am betting salt. A circle of salt. Why the fuck am I in a circle of salt?

And drenched. I realized I am soaking wet and freezing when I start shivering. That is when the drip line starts tapping my shoulder. I snap my head around, cracking several vertebra for some mild relief. A pole with a clear bag of, I squint again to read, dextrose solution is behind my back on the left side. Suddenly I want to itch under the tape I feel stuck on my arm, and I bounce between the itch, the throbbing ache of my shoulders, the burning flame shoved in my skull, and the absolute urgency to stretch, to escape sleep or drug or whatever has happened to me. My full bladder is very, very far down on the list of things to fix. I shake my head and lean back.

Above are inset light fixtures found in office and industrial buildings everywhere, but they don’t have the long bulbs yet and the wires are sticking out either side like the installation isn’t complete. The strong paint scent, adding to the headache, tells the other half of the story indicating the room is either being remodeled or … newly built. It feels new, like it had never been anything before and not sure about becoming a prison with its first use. Poor thing. I’m facing an empty wall and the sullen room echoes like empty rooms do with the lamp’s electric hum. On my left is a doorway with no door. On my right, behind where I can fully rotate my head is blue painter’s tape over some black plastic. Potentially a window. I wonder if I can scoot the chair over.

The salt circle is worrisome. Is it to keep something in or something out? Barely visible against the white-veined floor, I see something else. I rub my bare feet against the cool surface and decide the floor is real marble, not vinyl. Powder tickles my feet. Crunching my head down as far as it can go, I try to see the floor directly under the chair. I thought I had saw some … yep, chalk lines inside the circle. With me in the circle. Really, what the f’ing hell?

It’s not like I’m magic. Sure some of my friends do the hand-wavy thing – and get results when they do – and I’ve dated a couple, but aside from being an albino and a damn good crystal cutter and jewelry maker, I’m nothing special.

There is a second group of lines with some sort of runes outside the immediate chair circle now that I know what to look for. I stare at the wall and think I see stuff there too. Definitely stuff on the ceiling.

What happened last night … I was at a party for the Fourth of July, thrown by Fergus and Summerfrog. Everyone in town and about half the state dropped by including … oh, no he didn’t.

“Bloody Hell!” That thrice-cursed wizard did not roofie me.

Goddess, why did I ever date the fucker?

Speaking of fucking, I shifted in the chair. Nope, nothing feeling sore or raw other than really wanting some cushioning beyond whatever caused a small crinkle, and the arms free, and the headache gone, and everything else. But nothing wrong down there. Considering his size, one of his best traits making me forgive and forget things I shouldn’t have, I would be feeling all kinds of stretched.

Behind me comes footsteps on the marble floor. “Ah, my angel, you are awake.”

The squishy part of me flutters at the smooth deep voice. I crunch my eyes close and shove the unwanted feelings down as far as I can and lock them up tight.

“I fixed your hair.”

I remember now. He had exploded when he saw I dyed my hair black. Just lost it. Fergus made him leave after we started throwing things – me, stuff from the BBQ cooking area, and he, magic. The Tutors’ hated bullies; me versus a level-four wizard wasn’t a fair fight even if I held my own once the turning fork had sunk into his thigh and I grabbed the lighter and lighter fluid.

Things got hazy shortly thereafter.

He stroked my hair from behind. I twisted my head away from the petting, growling, “Don’t touch me.”

I searched my memory for anything else, recognizing the effects of the spell at last. He used it every fight we had from when we started dating at Christmas, aftereffect included forgetting about everything that happened as much as two hours before the casting. It took a while before he used it once too often and caught some Christian time in the forget-window. Christian isn’t a guy who lets things slide and contacted me the next day about a phone call I had never returned because I had been in the middle of something. I had nothing. No memory of the event, although my cell phone recorded three minutes and twenty-four seconds.

Even so it took me nearly a month before I dumped the jerk. Gaslighting X-treme. Christian and I backtracked all kinds of issues before I could admit the problem wasn’t me. Yeah, he had made me that screwed up.

The fuckard had walked around to my front while I was taking stock. Backlit by the lamp, he was as impressive as always. His typical three-piece white suit unlocked the gushy in me. The waistcoat hinting at his perfect abs, the white silk tie in a Windsor just below an Adam’s apple begging to be nibbled, and pressed linen and satin-silk striped white pants hiding the part of him I loved the most. My dry mouth salivated at the thought of sucking him.

I scrunched my eyes closed, dropped my head to my chest, and dug my nails into my palms, fisting my hands behind my back. Not me. Whatever these thought are, they are not mine. My head shook side to side as I try to lose them. Sure, they were my thoughts only last week before I finally broke up with him four nights before the party, but they shouldn’t, couldn’t WON’T be my thought now.

Another spell. Had to be.

I felt rather than saw him crouch before me. His voice laced when concern when he asked, “Are you all right, my dear?” The scent of his aftershave wafted to me as I inhaled through gritted teeth, tightening my stomach and loosening things lower. I loved that scent. Even bought incense to burn when I worked at home so I could remember our good times. We had so many good times.

No. No we hadn’t. Only times I been enchanted to think were good. I thrown those incense sticks down the apartment’s compost chute right before I went to his place to break up the second time.

“No, I’m not.” I lifted my head, refusing to bow before him and drilled my red eyes into his blue ones. “Let me go.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” With a few quick hand movement by him, the zipties holding back my arms released.

My arms swung around of their own volition. Nothing magical there. Holding arms in one position, say tight against person’s torso, mean when the pressure is gone, they rise slightly against missing pressure. Every inch of the automatic movement made me want to scream from the pain lancing across my shoulders and back. I fought vocalizing anything, not wanting to give this fucker, handsome and delicious though he …

No.

I attempt to leap at him but couldn’t move out of the chair. Good thing, because I forgot the IV line. The slight movement my aborted leap moved the catheter. Agony. I couldn’t help moaning this time. My whole body is still shivering.

“Easy, easy.” Removing his monogrammed handkerchief from its pocket, he drops it on the floor and starts wiping away the outer rune circle.

While he does that, I pluck the tape from my arm and carefully remove the plastic tube. Some liquid and blood overflows from the inflamed opening dropping on my white slacks. I don’t recognize the slacks. Nor the shirt, a silk and lace poet shirt.

Looking up after erasing the arc in front of me, his blond eyebrows meet. “Oh, you are going to need a bandage for that. I’ll be right back.” He stood smoothly and flowed around behind. I turn in the chair to watch him move, sighing.

Really … really?

I should have taken Christian up on that necklace he offered to make.

I manage to stand shakily. My legs barely support me, even when I lean on the chair’s back. How long had Marv kept me here? Well, not a moment longer.

I step outside the salt circle.

And immediately fall back into the clear plastic chair. Standing again, I slap the air in front of me and can’t go beyond the salt line. I try shoving the chair out, but it can’t move either. Obviously the runes he erased weren’t enough. And I got the answer of whether the circle kept thing in or out. He reached through it just fine to pet me.

Waiting for him to come back, I finish looking around the room. I see a box of adult diapers in the corner…

(Words 1,743; first published 12/29/2019)

Flash: Chich-a-whoo Feathers

Erin Penn

Image by saphatthachat at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“You know hon, you really should wear pants if you are going to take taxis in this part of town.” The rhino driver commented in conversational tones, when looking over her shoulder as they approached the noble’s stop, hoping not to be heard. “Or, at least, underwear,” she muttered under her breath. She did not need to know what designs the woman trimmed into her short hairs.

“What?” The noble mouthed unheard over the animal’s stamp through the wide streets set aside for transport. She likely stated in the lackadaisical accent they all adopted to imitate the spacers from the far-flung worlds of the Empire.

Saba kneed Mai-mia to a halt. “We are here, Your Eminence.” The driver quickly crawled up the steps, adjusted her skort, a combination of shorts for modesty and skirt as required by Lavinian law, thankful once again for the length exemption granted to drivers. Otherwise, with her caste, she would be covered from head to foot, long-sleeves, scarves, hat, and full undivided-skirts – who wanted to live that restricted?

Helping her client stand on the steady animal, Saba got another eyeful of boobs and butt she could have done without. She helped the Important Person down the primary steps to where the ladder started. In deference to the stature of her passenger, Saba snapped down the secondary when something startled Mai-mia, sending them both stumbling.

Saba held onto the woman’s waist, swinging her around. Using the strength she with which she could control the rhino when Mai-mia got cranky, Saba pulled her back on the animal instead of the woman falling and getting trampled. They both fell forward onto the animal’s head, with Saba spread eagle over the noble.

The weight and touches on the head behind the ear told Mai-mia to move at a trot. “Don’t move!” Saba yelled at the white dressed woman.

Of course, the noble started struggling, trying to free herself. Mai-mia interpreted the movements to run. “Don’t move!” When the woman continued, Saba sat up, straddling the woman at the waist and slugged her several times until she went unconscious.

Keeping the limp body on the rhino took every bit of skill Saba had developed transporting the morning vegetable to all the vendors on Hiss-Hot alley.

“Just like Bindle’s daily bag of melons.” Saba muttered, while touching and maneuvering around Mai-mia’s head until the animal came to a stop. Once still, Saba took in her surroundings. They were nearly to the Markers’ farm, just outside the gates. Taking out her crop, she looped both ends around the rhino’s ears indicating it should remain still, like she should have done the first time. She had gotten lazy; Mai-mia and her had been together a long time.

Once satisfied the rhino would remain in place, Saba carried the woman back to the patron seat and tied her in. Sometime her older clients and the extremely young needed the additional support. And the drunk. Mostly the drunk. Lots of drunk on her runs. Saba looked over the damage. The woman would have a black eye and several bruises across her chin, but no scratches and she shouldn’t have any scars. Most importantly, the woman was still breathing, and not coating the hooves of the rhino.

Climbing down, Saba did an even more through examination of the rhino, finding two darts, with the gray-blue-purple feathers of the Chich-a-whoo bird. The darts smelled of Hurt, the best antiseptic on the planet that lived up to its name during initial administration no matter what method was used in its application and the doctors tried everything: suave, injection, oil. The initial sting was blinding in pain, but two second later, the injury site would be numb and healing. Nearly half of the population passed out from the pain, the other half vomited. A rare individual was immune to the pain, but Saba had never met one.

“I’m so sorry, Mai-mia.” Saba rubbed her rhino’s sensitive horn. Unlike the Earth’s version of the rhino, the horns on Lavin rhino provide them the ability to predict weather, migrate, and communicate over distances. The animal moo’ed and snick’ed back, seeking comfort from its human and asking forgiveness. “I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault. Not your fault.”

Swimming up to the head seat, Saba removed the halt-crop and slid back off the animal to guide Mai-mia to a balboa grove about two hecto outside of town, the one with a pump well her caste could use for their animals. Two dramas, something that looked like a cross between a dromedary camel and a llama from old Earth, were being watered by the four youngest Marker children, between water fights.

When they ran to Mai-mia in greetings, Saba stepped between them and her animal. “Careful, she’s had a fright. Move slowly, like around old Grissizzie.”

“Someone scared Mi-mi?” Dhruv asked, the second youngest, eyes so round they barely fit in the head.

“Scared and hurt her. She needs some water.”

“We can help.” Prisha gathered her younger siblings around the pump and they all quickly went to work, as only farmer children could when things were serious. The lever swung high enough to pull the youngest two from the ground, but the combined might of the four children too young to attend school, at least for their caste, had water gushing before Mai-mia had settled enough to drink.

Climbing up her animal, Saba set the halt-crop between the ears once again, then went to inspect her passenger. Wiping the blood and grime from the noble’s face using a cloth she had wet before climbing up brought the woman around. Her eyes tracked quickly and the only reason the noble didn’t attack Saba were the restraints.

“How dare you, you banthie?!? I will have you killed for this! Do you know who I am?”

“Not a clue, Your Eminence, but next time you are on a taxi’s head and the driver say ‘Don’t move,’ I would recommend not moving.” At this point, Saba was sure she was dead, in fact, she had accepted the outcome while she was pulling the woman back to the rhino, but she hoped she could save Mai-mia to be sold to another owner and not be put down.

“You kidnapped me.” The woman pulled on her restraints.

“I did no such thing, Eminence.” Saba studied the woman’s face, neck, and exposed skin – so much exposed skin, even for the highest of castes, the woman had to be a slit-slip – for bruises; all the ones she thought would develop were developing, plus one on the arm where she vaguely remembered grabbing the woman, and one on the leg which matched the one Saba could feel on her knee where the driver had landed on the split-slip when they both tumbled onto Mai-mia’s head.

“Then, what did you do banthie?” She spat.

“Saved your life, Your Eminence.” Saba pulled the darts from where she tucked them into her belt and opened her hand so the fetching would be visible. “Might this lowly Bane of Lavin ask why the blessed creature we are on was injured in your service.”

The noble prostitute examined the damning fletching, used exclusively by the Unclassed Guild, her rare blue eyes shining with intelligence and consideration. A careful frown, one which would not add wrinkles, turned down the edges of her painted lips.

(Words 1228; First published 12/22/2019)